


Forgotten Roads

by bereniceofdale



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Asexual Characters, Creatures, M/M, Not So Graphic Depictions of Violence but you're never too careful, Shapeshifting, Slow Burn, Weird locations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2017-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-24 08:33:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 61,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6147811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bereniceofdale/pseuds/bereniceofdale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Bard's secret was revealed, he had no choice but to accept exile. Sent away with no hopes of ever being trusted or seeing his children again, Bard wandered across the country without purpose. Now comes a man with the promise of a new life at the end of a long journey, should he accept the stranger's request: to lead him through lands and dangers long forgotten, in quest of hope long lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who's read my other stories, this prologue and first chapter have been written almost a year ago and was my third story ever; that's why it might sound different than my most recent works. I've worked on it since it was finished of course, so it's not as bad as it used to be, but it's still a bit different in my opinion and I'd rather warn you because I'm an anxious little writer who loves to fret over this kind of useless things!

“Da!” The cry, desperate, rang through the air.

The screams, the blood, and the pain were all he could hear, see, and feel. His children's strangled cries of fear and despair sounded to his ears like a sword through his heart. Blood stained his face, obscuring his sight, wetting his lips and putting the taste of iron on his tongue as he struggled for breath.

The pain caused by the ropes against his skin, burning as they tightened stronger and stronger, keeping him kneeled on the ground, was not the worst; his eye hurt as if a hundred needles were piercing it over and over again, and each blink reminded him of the deep scratch across his face, bleeding as if it would never stop. He could feel the beating of his heart, heavy and panicked against his temple, for he was quickly losing his strength and began to choke; his tired hands were unable to reduce the strain of the rope around his neck.

Black spots appeared in his blurred vision, and just when he thought he was going to die miserably on the ground, right there, right then, under the innocent eyes of his children, a familiar voice rose above all the others.

“Please, stop!” This voice—was it Hilda? Hilda, the good old Hilda, his neighbor?

All the woman received in answer were shouts of protest, and the cries of his children grew more desperate as they witnessed their father struggling to catch bits of air. The woman's voice cut the tense atmosphere once again, more severe and imperious.

“Wait, and listen to me!”

There was a silence, some whispers, and then suddenly his hands found no resistance and oxygen made its way down his throat to his lungs. He coughed, his breathing laborious, but he quickly forgot the pain everywhere in his body when tiny arms hugged him tight before he could fall to the earth. He felt tears against his neck, heard quiet sobs in his ear.

Then a soft fabric cleaned the blood from his right eye away, and his gaze met for a second the terrified face of his youngest daughter, until she buried her head in his shoulder again, hanging onto him like a lifeboat. He softly stroked her hair, wishing he could speak, but his throat burned too much. Behind her, a few feet away, stood Bain and Sigrid, both held back by villagers, preventing them from going to him.

Tilda had probably slipped from their hands, but no one dared get close enough to bring her back.

Most of the village was there, some armed with swords or spikes or forks, all aimed at him. At the end of the ropes were people he had considered good companions. Hilda had her back turned from him, facing the Master, a tall man dressed in expensive clothes of very bad taste, but who somehow managed to look lordy anyway, whose hand was raised, ready to give the order to tighten the ropes again. All of them expressed disgust and fear. On some faces, there was hatred.

“You don't have to kill him!” Hilda said, sounding sure of herself. As she was the only Soothsayer of the village, old and wise, people listened to her, even the Master, for his people trusted her.

But fear of what was different was stronger than any wise advice, for it was a poison, a natural reaction rotting and blinding most human's opinions. "But it's a beast!"; "a monster!"; "it'll bring us bad luck!"; "he's always been a troublemaker!" were some of the words and insults shouted amongst the villagers.

Tilda hugged him tighter, her little body shaking against his chest. Sigrid and Bain were crying, and it broke his heart; they should not witness this. If it had to end like this, they should be taken away. Hilda would take care of them; they were safe, and they would be alright. 

It was all that mattered to him. That was, after all, what had brought this situation upon him. He had known all along it would come to this.

But it was worth it, and he would do it all again.

“We owe Bard our lives; he saved us from the dragon years ago!” Reminded of this fact, the crowd went quiet, save for the whispers, the children's crying and his heavy breath. But Hilda wasn't done yet. “Let him live. Our future holds nothing dark related to him—”

Bard saw hope making its way in his children's eyes. He felt it, too. For a moment he naively believed the people he had shared his life with for years would accept him. That they would remember he was no different than he had always been, that this revelation didn't change who he was. Maybe a few of them did. But for most, if Wizards and Healers and Soothsayers were almost a common thing, they were harmless; people like him were not. Too different, too dangerous, too rare. Everything else, all they had shared, didn't matter.

The sad look in the old woman's eyes finished taking all Bard's hope away as she turned to finally face him.

“—if he leaves.”

Sigrid let out a gasp and Bain gripped his sister's arm, staring at his father with horrified eyes. In the crowd there were shouts of agreement: people seemed to like the idea. Bard understood why; they wouldn't have to get their hands dirty, wouldn’t have to look at three orphaned children everyday and remember that they were the cause of their situation. They wouldn't have to kill someone they had once appreciated, even respected. If they could get away with this, send the devil away without spending blood in the process, why not?

All eyes were on the Master. He was a skilled sword fighter, and people respected him, for he managed to keep order like no other. But he was also violent and greedy, flaws that could easily be held against him, should anyone be interested in taking his place. 

Bard turned his gaze away from the Master. He looked at his kids, for he knew whatever the outcome was, he would either never see them again, or not until a long time.

He would die, or he would leave.

In both cases, Bard's world would fall apart. And oh, how the Master would be happy. Finally, he was getting the eternal troublemaker out of his way. By not killing the beast, he would gain even more of people's trust, he would prove how capable of acts of goodwill he was. For people didn't need to see the man they thought they’d known well dead, now that their Soothsayer had reassured them he would cause no harm if he left. They wouldn't appreciate seeing him killed anymore. It was hypocritical, Bard thought, but this was as things had always been.

“Fine.” There was not another word spoken once the Master started talking. He turned to stare with disgust at the kneeling man, who still held his crying little girl close. “Leave, Bard. And _do not_ come back.”

He gestured to his men to cut off the bloodied ropes around Bard's neck, chest and legs, which they did with shaky hands. Bard would never hurt them, though. How could he? They had been friends. They had been laughing together just hours ago.

Hilda muttered, “I'm sorry,” but stood close, as Bard knew she was aware of what she would have to do.

A nod of the Master's head and they tried to get Tilda away from him.

“Please!” Bard let out in a broken, rough voice, gripping his daughter's arm as if letting go now would be enough to kill him. “I beg of you; please. Let me at least say goodbye.”

The begging must have pleased the Master, for he told the men to let go of her, as well as Sigrid and Bain, who ran to him, falling to their knees to hug their father, eyes red from crying. They had not complained to the Master, for they had to know it was this or death, and the latter was not even thinkable for their fragile minds.

“Let us come with you,” Bain cried, and Tilda looked up to nod vigorously. Only Sigrid didn't react, picking hair away from her father's injury, concern painted all over her face.

“No. The road is no place for a five and an eleven-year-old, Bain.”

“But—”

“I said no. Rumors will spread and follow me everywhere.” With a shaky hand and thumb, Bard wiped another tear off his son's cheek, and smiled sadly. “You're not safe with me anymore.”

“But you saved us!” Tilda whispered, clinging to his arm.

“This kind of danger is differ—” Bard grunted in pain, abruptly reminded of its presence, as Sigrid had softly touched the surface of the side of his left eye. He had not even noticed her finger getting so close to his sight. She looked horrified, but they hadn't time for this; the Master's patience was not one to play with.

“You must see a Healer, Da.”

As much as it pained him, Bard ignored her words, and kissed Tilda on the forehead. He ran a hand through Bain's hair, then with both of them he held gently the boy's head in place, forcing his son to look at him.

“You take care of your little sister.”

Bain nodded, biting his lip. Then, Bard turned to his eldest, meeting her worried, teary gaze. She looked so much like her mother that it squeezed his heart even tighter.

“Hey—I'll be fine, love. I'll be fine. Just take care of them. Hilda will help you.” She tried to smile, but failed, her expression breaking into a despair he could not bear to see. “I'll come back. I swear. This is not a farewell. Okay?” he said more quietly, to be heard only by his children.

The three of them looked down, not answering. Even Tilda, too young to completely understand, seemed to feel the importance of what was happening.

Bard's voice broke when he next spoke, tears filling his eye. They were his world, and he had promised to never abandon them. Yet here he was, forced to leave them behind for their own safety. “O—Okay?”

Slowly, they nodded. It was all he could get from them.

“I love you, Da!” Tilda cried, throwing her little arms around his neck, staining her clothes with blood. Bard winced, but managed to give a weak, reassuring smile to her siblings as he stroked her back. His gaze fell, for the first time since his children had gotten to him, on the people all around them.

They were growing impatient. They wanted him to leave, now.

“I love you too, darling.” Bard looked at Bain and Sigrid as he said so, aiming his words at them, too.

He put a kiss in Tilda’s hair, before softly pushing her off him. Bard let her put something inside one of his belts' satchels, and then got up slowly, unable to stop himself from groaning in pain; his whole body was aching. There was no doubt he would be covered in bruises. The ropes had burned his skin, stripped it in some places. He was a bloodied mess, and Bard hated that this would be the last sight his children would have of him.

But only for a while. Not forever.

Bard held the Master's gaze, and ignored the looks people gave him. He tried to forget how they were betraying him, after all he had done for them.

He nodded to Hilda, who gathered his children around her. He gave a last smile to Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda.

Bard felt his heart being shattered into a million pieces.

And then, limping, he walked away.


	2. Bree I

Thranduil had always hated taverns, maybe as much as he hated the people filling them. He hadn’t entered any for years, as business had been his only reason to frequent those despicable places, and it was something he didn’t do anymore.

Taverns were dirty, and they stank of bad alcohol and sweat. People there were violent, drunk, and rude. Basically, everything Thranduil despised from deep in his being. But taverns also had their few good points: they were so noisy that they actually allowed one to have private conversations without the worry of being overheard. And this was the only reason Thranduil was glad he had been directed to Bree’s smallest pub, when he had asked where the person he was looking for happened to be.

Flawless, dressed in high leather boots and a fine looking green cape with sleeves, his long silvery hair falling down his back and shoulders, Thranduil looked completely out of place as he entered the Red Dragon.

This tavern made no exception to his belief: it was dirty, and sweaty. Everything was old and worn out, from the floor to the ceiling to the tables and the chairs. Alcohol and sickness filled the air around the poor-looking people drinking, talking, and laughing around the place. Some looked like criminals, others like simple peasants. One way or the other, they weren't the kind of people Thranduil wanted to frequent. 

He headed for the bar, ignoring the curious looks that followed his path, for most of them knew who Thranduil was. His name was famous around here, and even though he had arrived in town years ago to live in a house near the woods, he was still easily recognized.

After all, there were not many tall, rich men looking like him.

Thranduil looked across the room, but there was no one corresponding to the description—man in black under a hood—he had of the person he was here for. So, he put a golden coin on the bar’s old wooden surface, right where the bartender had passed a cloth maybe even dirtier than what he had been trying to clean. Thranduil hid his disgust behind a slight smile he didn’t even try to make genuine. The man behind the bar took the coin and then looked up to him, indicating he was listening.

“I’m looking for Bard.”

The effect was immediate: there were whispers amongst the peasants within earshot, and the bartender stiffened. He didn’t answer as he hesitated, giving a quick look to a young boy, probably his son, who shook his head vigorously. Thranduil sighed in exasperation, rolling his eyes as his hand reached for his purse once again. He threw another coin to the man, who caught it and immediately stuffed it in his pocket, as if he feared Thranduil would take it back.

“The back room, sir,” the bartender finally said. “I wouldn’t go in there, though. You know what they say.”

Thranduil looked at him blankly. “Yes.” He smirked. “I do.”

He headed to the room’s entrance, for it had no door. Only silence came from it, which was not usual; back rooms were used either by richer people who didn’t want to mix with the poorer, or people who didn’t want to be as surrounded as in the main room, for this one was always quieter.

As he stepped inside his gaze fell on a man, sitting at a table in the corner of the empty room. Thranduil was quiet, but his steps still made the floor creak; the man didn’t move a finger. He seemed to be looking through the window, a hand near the dagger hanging to his belt, the other on his knee. From the door frame, Thranduil could only see the back of his head, as it was turned towards the sun. He had half-tied dark hair reaching his shoulders, and wore a simple grey tunic in poor condition, under a black cloak torn in some places, covering mainly his right side.

Slowly, Thranduil approached the man, but didn't try to hide his presence. He sat in front of him, and clasped his hands on the small table. The man hadn't moved, and his eyes were closed. From what Thranduil could see, he also had a mustache, a soul patch, a bit of beard and sideburns, all of which fit him. He was actually the first person able to wear facial hair this way without looking like an idiot that Thranduil had ever seen. And he had seen many of those in his life.

“So, you're Bard?” Thranduil enquired. Still no reaction. One could have thought the man dead if it wasn't for the calm and regular movement of his chest. “Bard the Dragonslayer?”

To this term, Bard—for it had to be him—suddenly opened his eyes and turned to face Thranduil, so swiftly he didn't get the chance the move his hands away before a dagger pierced his sleeve, an inch away from his wrist. It was so unexpected that Thranduil's eyes widened in fear—and Thranduil didn't do fear—just as a second, smaller dagger now pressed against his throat.

The man was leaning over the small table between them, and for the first time Thranduil completely saw his glowering face. On the left side of it, there was an impressive scar going from his forehead to his jaw, not far from the ear. His eye was cloudy, almost white. Thranduil couldn't help but letting out a quiet gasp that he cursed himself for, for the whole picture was unexpected, and so, horrifying.

Thranduil abruptly understood why people feared him, as well as the emptiness of the room. No one wanted to be around a disfigured, armed, and skilled man everyone suspected to be a dangerous monster. How right they were; he had known the second their eyes had met.

“What do you want?!” Bard whispered, with a hint of threat.

Thranduil saw in Bard's eye something different than what his rough voice gave away. Along with the anger, there were bits of fear, and guilt.

The blade was cold against his skin. It would slide and slice if needed, but Bard didn't enjoy this, Thranduil could tell. Bard's hazel gaze scrutinized his own, looking for something he wouldn't find.

“Is the Master sending you,” he asked, “Why?!”

“The Mas—of course not!”

Thranduil instinctively raised his available hand at head level as Bard pressed the dagger a little harder against his throat.

Oh, Thranduil wasn't a coward. He just knew when he couldn't win: he should have been more careful, and less self-confident.

“I've just been told you used to be called this way.” Thranduil made his voice as calm and sincere as he could, trying to ignore how just a flip of Bard's hand would result with him bleeding out; no one could do anything to save him, and dying wasn't in his plans for today.

As Bard stared at him, Thranduil held his breath.

He felt a drop of blood rolling down his skin.

Then, the pressure on his throat disappeared and Bard was leaning against the back of his chair, his dagger still stuck in Thranduil's sleeve and in the table, his good eye not leaving Thranduil's face. Before Thranduil could try to take the blade off, Bard's hand stopped his action by holding the dagger's pommel.

“Why should I trust you?” Bard asked, tilting his head slightly to the side.

Thranduil's eyes fell on the man's neck. It was scarred as well, particularly from the right side to the front, but less visible, different than on his face. It sent a shiver down Thranduil's spine, for he had seen such scars before; around abused animals' neck.

“Why should I?” Thranduil merely replied, getting himself back together as fast as he was able to, wishing to keep the regal composure he was known for. He didn't need to say anything else to remind Bard he was the one being feared here. But this way, Thranduil also implied something else.

Bard frowned, his curiosity piqued, and he took his dagger from the wood, putting it back in its sheath. Thranduil smirked as he felt his breath calming down. He rubbed his throat slowly and felt a bit of blood wetting the surface of his fingers, then his icy blue gaze met Bard's. It had turned from angry and somehow afraid to something unexpected; it looked sorry. There was a warmth in those eyes, alongside everlasting pain and loneliness. But this different aspect didn't make him any less dangerous, nor less unpredictable.

But more than anything, in front of Thranduil sat a broken man. Maybe even more than he himself was. It took Thranduil aback, for he had not expected this; this wasn't a vicious beast, but an intelligent, gentle creature, whose soul reflected his own.

“Only people from Laketown know me by that name. Who told you?”

“Some man,” Thranduil answered, clasping his hands on the table once again. “A merchant, passing through. I just happened to be there when he talked about you.”

“What else did he say?” Bard's eyes were fixed on him, piercing through him like daggers. They may have looked kind, but Thranduil could still feel his tension, the distance he put between them. If he wasn't aggressive anymore, he wasn't unconfident either, and could hurt Thranduil if he felt it was necessary. It was obvious Thranduil wouldn't get anything from Bard unless he answered his questions. “Don't you forget anything.”

“He said you lived there all your life and used to be a hunter, but you were exiled three years ago.” Thranduil leaned against the back of his chair as he spoke, not leaving Bard's good eye. “They thought you dead, you apparently didn't leave in great condition. Until they heard about you a few weeks ago.”

Bard smiled a non genuine, sad smile, as he inspected the sharpness of his second dagger's tip, finally getting his eyes off Thranduil. “That must have disappointed them.”

“He also said he would never forget about the day you left, that your children broke his heart,” Thranduil added in a quieter tone, scrutinizing Bard's expression which had abruptly turned cold as ice, his eye locked on the horizon they could admire through the old wooden window, as he let his weapon fall on his lap along with his rough, dirty hand.

Thranduil could feel the man's pain, for it was so strong it escaped from his every pore: in the way he sat, the way he looked away, the way he had tensed. Such a pain crushed Thranduil like a thousand sharp rocks being thrown at him, and he had to resist the urge to stand up and leave.

“Did they?” Bard's voice was a whisper, barely audible. Thranduil didn't answer, for there was no need to. It took a good minute before Bard's gaze finally turned again to Thranduil, not meeting his eyes nonetheless. “That merchant—did he say anything else about them?”

“No.” _I'm sorry._ Those last two words didn't leave Thranduil’s mouth. He just stared at Bard blankly, as Bard nodded slowly and took a deep breath. Thranduil did feel sorry for him, a little at least. He didn't want to imagine what it would be like to be forced to leave his son behind in such circumstances, with the uncertainty of ever seeing him again. It was just unthinkable, and probably unbearable, too.

But he had no more time for sentimentalities; Thranduil wasn't here to give Bard news of his children, but for another purpose which had required him to take this road, in order to gain if only a small bit of Bard's trust.

One last thing he had to say, and he would get to the point.

“Ex—excuse me?”

Both Bard and Thranduil abruptly turned to stare at the person who had interrupted their conversation: it was the bartender's son, standing in the doorframe and trying desperately not to stare at Bard, eyes widened in fear. He took a few steps towards them, hands shaking at his sides, unable to get his gaze off Bard's scarred face as his eyes kept going back to it, no matter how hard he tried to look at Thranduil instead.

“Wi—will you have something to drink? Fa—father says y—you can't stay if you d—don't buy a—anything.”

From the corner of his eye, Thranduil saw Bard's grip around his dagger tighten, and he could have sworn that were he to take a look at him, he would have seen some kind of anger across Bard's face. Not against the boy, no, but against the father who sent a child do the work he feared could turn bad.

As Bard started getting up to leave, Thranduil's hand gripped his arm. The reaction was immediate; Bard stiffened and got his arm away from Thranduil's reach, but not fast enough to prevent Thranduil from passing something in his hand. Though nothing came out of his mouth, Thranduil could still understand what his eye filled with astonishment was saying: 'do not touch me.'

“Two glasses of your best wine, please,” Thranduil required, ignoring Bard's confused expression and smiling slightly at the boy whose eyes widened even more. There was no doubt wine wasn't exactly something asked a lot, and definitely not for someone living on the road, someone everyone wished to see gone.

“F—Fine, sir. I—I'll get you that right away.”

One final glance to Bard and he was running out of the room. Only then did Bard allow sadness to creep its way back on his tired face, but only for a second, for as soon as he sat again, blankness was back on his features. Neither of them said anything until their wine was brought to them, Thranduil believing that talking only to be interrupted again was useless.

The boy's hands shook even more as he set the two glasses on the table, as if he feared Bard would suddenly grab him and hurt him.

“Boy,” Thranduil called before he could leave in a blow of air once again. The bartender's son slowly turned to face Thranduil, worried eyes darting between him and Bard.

“Y—yes, sir?” the boy asked, voice trembling and hesitant, clasping his hands behind his back almost in a guilty way.

“Come here.”

Bard watched curiously as the boy approached, stopping a few inches away from the table. He swayed on his feet as Thranduil reached for his purse and took out some coins.

“For the wine,” he said, gesturing to the boy to offer his palm in which he gently put the money. “Then—” Thranduil gave Bard a knowing look, and as realization crept its way in his eyes, Bard slowly opened his fist to reveal a golden coin. He offered it to the boy, trying on a small smile.

“Here, to get yourself what makes you happy,” Bard said, his eye warm and filled with a fondness only a father could show.

The boy stared at him in disbelief. His gaze went from the coin in Bard's hand to the man's face, the fear in his features slowly turning to confusion as he probably fought against all the bad things he had been told about Bard, and how what he saw in front of him was the complete opposite of everything he had believed until then.

“T—thank you, sir,” he muttered shyly as he took the golden coin—his hand still shaking though—his fingers brushing Bard's dirty palm's skin. He let shown for the first time a little smile, which made Bard's grow wider, much to Thranduil's satisfaction.

With a last nod to the two men, the boy left the room, and Thranduil gave a thin smile as Bard turned to face him, after a few seconds of silent contemplation of some spot on the wall next to the doorframe, raising an eyebrow at him.

“I'm not an idiot, you know. I can tell you're just trying to get my trust,” Bard said, though his eye said something different than his tone. “But thanks anyway.”

Instead of any answer, Thranduil gestured to him to drink. Bard took the glass in his hand, inspecting the wine with some kind of uncertainty, as if he was a child offered a taste of a completely new dish and was afraid to not like it. Thranduil arched a brow, puzzled.

“I don't think they would risk to poison me in the process, if that's what you're worried about,” Thranduil said, smirking.

Bard smirked back.

“Of course, that would be a shame,” he said as he brought the dark, red liquid to his lips, taking a careful sip.

He winced as he tasted the wine and let it roll down his throat, and Thranduil guessed easily Bard had either never drank wine in his life, or it had been a very long time since he had last had a taste. According to what he knew thanks to the Laketown merchant, the first possibility was more likely.

Bard obviously didn't have any money. No one wanted to hire him, even for the smallest of jobs. The taste of beer or anything other than dirty water and moldy bread had to be long forgotten.

In turn, Thranduil reached for his glass, his fingertips just brushing the surface, when a massive headache abruptly overtook him; the strongest memories connected to this simple object made their way into his mind, forcing him to see. He winced as he saw some man getting stabbed in the back for not paying a too-old debt, and then a woman being proposed to. His grip tightened over his own palm: visions of past events were never a good time.

When at last Bard appeared in his sight again, Thranduil let out a shaky breath, running his hands over his face; he hated it, and always had.

There was a short silence as Bard stared, raising an eyebrow. Then, after a moment, he straightened himself up on his chair, eye filled with suspicion.

“Soothsayer,” he stated in a whisper, his hand clenching harder and, Thranduil guessed, unconsciously on the smaller dagger he was still holding.

“Shapeshifter,” Thranduil replied back.

Bard stiffened upon hearing the word. He reached for a satchel hanging to his belt, and squeezed it gently; he didn't seem to even notice what he was doing.

Bard didn't try to slit Thranduil's throat again, no, instead he stared at him in disbelief, probably wondering why Thranduil hadn’t already told the whole village. For if people had doubts about him, it was forbidden to attempt to kill anyone rumoured to be a Shapeshifter, unless there was proof—or a Soothsayer's formal word. He probably wondered as much why Thranduil didn't look at him like all the others, why he wasn't running away.

“Why come to me, if you know?”

_Finally_ , Thranduil thought. “Because I need you.”

Bard's curiosity was quickly replaced by an astounded expression. Then his face broke into a huge smile, adding more wrinkles to the corner of his eyes, and he laughed.

Thranduil didn't.

It was a dusty laugh, rough, as if it came from deep inside, as if it had been buried in a locked chest, or lost in the endless path of a maze, and it had finally found a way out. Thranduil understood that this man used to smile a lot, but didn't anymore.

“You need me because I'm a Shapeshifter?” This had to be the funniest thing he had heard in years, for he couldn't stop chuckling, much to Thranduil's exasperation. So much for the dangerous monster.

As a child, his father had told Thranduil—as had been told to every kid—how Shapeshifters were creatures of the dark, because what, other than darkness, could make people suddenly turn, at some point in their lives, into a huge animal that could rip one apart? That was what everyone believed. Thranduil had, for a long time.

Until now.

He had one in front of him, and just like Soothsayers, Healers, and Wizards, Bard looked like a man, shaped by fears and hope long lost. But when people didn't understand, when different beings were just too different and too rare, most of the time people feared, and fear led to hate. After centuries, things were not likely to change.

“No. Your experience just makes you the most skilled person I could ever find for the job,” Thranduil explained. “You know the road better than anyone around here.”

That wasn't all; Thranduil had other motives, but he wouldn't expose them here and now.

“What is there for me in all this?” Bard asked, going back to his seriousness in the blink of an eye, crossing his strong arms over his chest. “I don't care about money.”

Thranduil smirked, playing with a lock of his hair between two thin, perfectly clean fingers. He drank a bit of his wine before answering, “I own a few lands across this country.” He paused, and Bard frowned.

“What's your point?”

“If you help me, I'll give you a land of your choice, along with the house that comes with it, to start a new life with your children. No one but me will know about it.”

There was a heavy silence as Bard stared at him in disbelief once more. It didn't take long before it turned into some kind of bitterful anger. Bard had seen too much, Thranduil knew, and one would have to be blind not to realize such an obvious thing. He couldn't be surprised about Bard's distrust. It was too good to be true, and he had been stabbed in the back too many times not to be careful.

But Thranduil didn't mind, he even understood; he didn't trust Bard completely either. Who knew what he was capable of, what he was really like? After all, all he knew about him were stories, words repeated and repeated almost like a mantra, so much that it could be difficult to figure out what was truth and what was lie.

“Is this some kind of trick?” His voice was harsh, suspicious.

Bard wouldn't take any of the shit Thranduil might give him, despite how relaxed his attitude had started to grow like. He didn't fully trust Thranduil, not yet, and he had every right not to do so. In his condition, not being cautious would make Bard a fool.

“No, it's not.” Thranduil sighed, rolling his eyes nonetheless, as if he was deeply annoyed by Bard's lack of confidence. If he understood the vagabond's reactions, he was not planning on showing he did.

Thranduil's apparent exasperation, which actually had a big part of genuineness, seemed to ease Bard's doubts, just enough to keep the conversation going in Thranduil's direction.

“What do you need me for, exactly?” he asked.

“I have to go... somewhere. Not far from Erebor,” Thranduil said, focusing on not leaving Bard's good eye. He tried not to stare at the scars, but found himself unable to, and even if he would not admit it, he felt slightly bad for doing so. Bard didn't raise it up though, keeping an emotionless look on Thranduil. “I can't go on my own, you surely guessed that I'm not used to travel. I can defend myself, but I can't deny I don't know everything about our world and how to survive in it.”

Bard first nodded in understanding, then tilted his head slightly to the side.

“But Erebor? It's a three months’ walk from here.” Bard crossed his arms against his chest once again, careful not to hurt himself with his dagger, and stared at Thranduil with a skeptical look. “What do you need to go there for?”

“I'd like to reclaim something of mine.” This was Thranduil’s only answer. He didn't say anything more, and if Bard understood Thranduil was not going to share any more details about this quest right now, he decided not to take it into account.

“Must be a pretty important something.”

“It is.” Thranduil's voice was cold and sharp; he wouldn't go any further in the subject, and if he hadn't been clear the first time, he was now making sure he had. Unfortunately, Bard wasn't having any of it. Even more unfortunately, Thranduil wasn’t either, and wouldn't let Bard insist again.

“So, will you take the job, Bard?” Thranduil said before Bard could ask something else and extended a hand. To his surprise, “yes” was not what Thranduil heard coming from the man's mouth.

“No.”

_What?_ Thranduil blinked, confused.

“If I have to get myself into a three-month trip with you, risk my life more than I already do, I want to know why. I want to know as much as I estimate it takes.” Bard didn't let any emotion show on his face as he sat straighter and gave a nod of his head in Thranduil's direction. “You could start with your name.”

Thranduil smirked once again, though he was greatly annoyed. This was much less easy than he had thought it would be.

“Oh, yes. Where are my manners?” He extended a hand, but Bard just stared at it with raised eyebrows. Thranduil let his hand fall back to the table with another roll of his eyes. “The name's Thranduil.”

Before Bard could answer, Thranduil continued. “Listen, we'll do this: come with me to my house. There I'll be able to tell you more. You can never be sure there's no one listening.” He paused, looked around as if to give more sense to his words. “If you agree, you'll stay there with me for the preparations. If you don't, you can just leave.”

Bard lifted his chin up, eyes severe, still suspicious.

“How can I know you won't report me if I refuse?”

“You can't.” Thranduil had always been an honest person. He knew lying to Bard would only put more distance between them, send him away when he was needed. “But I wouldn't do such a thing. I won't gain anything from you dead, anyway. So, that's quite a good deal, don't you think?”

Bard blinked.

“Aye, it is.”

With that, they finished their wine without any other word, agreeing silently on their little deal, or whatever it was, but continuing to stare at each other like wolves. There was trust just as there was mistrust, though very different; Thranduil guessed Bard would never know if his intentions were completely honest, or, at the very least, it would take a while.

Thranduil didn't hope to share any trustful relationship with Bard. He could sense Bard was a good man; but he was a broken good man, and broken people were not always what they used to be. Being a Shapeshifter, having an animal part, he was even more unpredictable. He couldn't know how in control Bard was, and so he would have to be careful, even though he didn't fear him much.

“Shall we go?” It wasn't really a question, and Thranduil made sure to let it be heard in his voice.

Bard only nodded, standing and taking the lead as he headed for the door without even checking if Thranduil was following him, his worn out cloak floating behind him. He was tall, though Thranduil still had a head more than him, he could notice now. There was something particular about his posture; he looked confident, but he seemed stiff nonetheless.

Thranduil understood as soon as they entered the main room, for silence fell on it like a sudden heavy rain. All heads turned to them—to him—and soon enough there were whispers accompanied with fearful or hateful glances. Most of the men here, they only wished for one thing: for Bard to reveal himself, or for a Soothsayer to say what they all wanted to hear, and finish with it all. Daggers were out and hands gripped the hilt of old, rusty swords.

Thranduil couldn't see Bard's eye from where he stood, but if the movement of his head and the stiffness in his body were anything to go by, he was giving each and everyone of them a calm "don't you dare" look. There were always idiots not following the rules, idiots that let fear control their actions. It was never safe; it had happened before.

The men didn't move an inch. They unconsciously blocked the way, staring at Bard, frozen in their position, as if they had something to say but didn't know if they should speak up.

“A problem, gentlemen?” Thranduil's voice was deep and annoyed, clearly stating he had things to do and wouldn't spend another minute here, waiting like a fool that somebody just got out of their way.

Some gazes left Bard to lay on him. Brows were furrowed and confused. Why was the famous Lord Thranduil intervening in this?

“We don't want this monster here!” some man said from somewhere in the tavern, and there were nods and whispers to confirm his words.

“Good. No need to throw me out, I wasn't planning on staying anyways.” Bard took an abrupt step forward, and people took two back, fear painted all over their features when a mere second ago there had been only hate and disgust. Bard's face was blank. “That's what I thought.”

Cowards, they all were.

Thranduil kept watchful eyes on the tavern's customers, standing straight and looking regal as he always did. But some noticed the blood on his neck, and exchanged uncertain looks; and this wouldn't play in Bard's favor, one didn't have to be too clever to realize it.

“My Lord Thranduil, did he hurt you?” someone said in a shaky voice, filled with a strange mixture of terror and anger.

A shiver ran down Thranduil's spine, and he saw Bard's grip on his dagger tighten. As expected, that was not good, not good at all indeed. Upon hearing those words, all looks turned to Thranduil, then went from the Shapeshifter to the Soothsayer.

“It's nothing,” he said, but people didn’t seem to hear him.

There was more agitation, and Thranduil felt some kind of panic rush through him: they didn't want to listen anymore, letting their minds make up things that would allow them to do what they were not supposed to. Thranduil's fists clenched.

“It's nothing,” he repeated, louder, and this time people heard him.

“What's that on your neck, then?”

“It's a monster, that's what it does after all!”

“You had nothing when you came in!”

“It has hurt a Lord, it must pay!”

Thranduil felt sick. Who were they, to talk this way? But he didn't have any time to speak out about choices of words though; they had to leave, before it turned bad.

There were people, too many people with only one wish: spread the monster's blood. Thranduil turned to Bard, but his face was decomposed: along with defiance, despair was all that what left under the pressure of the situation, and he had taken out his dagger in defense.

Bard wasn't stupid, and upon looking at him Thranduil understood he was coming to the same conclusions: now the villagers were rallying under a common cause other than fear; now they had found a good excuse to act, his chances to get out were close to zero. Unless he turned, which was out of the question, Thranduil knew. Bard didn't seem to have anything of a cold-blooded killer, and it would destroy the small amount of peace he had.

There was no way out, was there?

The men were gathering their courage, raising their weapons. Bard's apparent despair was encouraging, but the quiet rage in his eye held them back. They still weren't sure. Despite their number, their clear advantage, their fear was strong and visible, for they didn't know exactly what they were up against. The tension was awful to bear, and Thranduil wished he had hidden the cut before stepping outside the back room. What an idiot he had been.

Finally, some of the men took a step towards Bard. Thranduil froze, and Bard held his breath.

“Wait!” It was a shy, slightly broken voice, yet loud enough to be heard. The bartender's boy had run between them; all looked down to him with utter confusion. “Wait!” he repeated, his tone imploring.

“Get out of the way, boy!” the woman in front line grunted.

“But he's done nothing wrong! A—And Lord Thranduil said it was nothing!” Bard had lowered his dagger, staring at the boy. “I went into the room to take their orders! Lord Thranduil was already hurt, but they were just talking. And when I came back, it was the same! You've got no good reason! I—I'll tell the guards!”

“The guards won't listen to you,” the woman spat, anger stronger on her features, and others cheered.

“No, but they will listen to me.” Thranduil chose this moment to intervene, gaze terribly calm. “You heard the boy. There's nothing to worry about. You've got nothing. Now let us go.” His tone left no place for discussion, harsh and ice cold.

There was a tense silence, only disturbed by heavy breaths. Then finally, someone sighed in surrender and lowered their weapon. The others followed, returning to where they used to be standing, their conversation or their seat. One could have believed nothing had happened if people weren't sending death glares Bard's way. Thranduil let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding, relief filling his mind and body.

Before they left, Bard turned to send the bartender—thinking himself safe behind his bar—a disgusted look, then crouched to pat the boy's shoulder and give him a small, warm smile.

“Thank you,” he whispered as Thranduil watched the scene without a word. Then he stood, and without looking back, he followed Thranduil outside, making their way through the mass of people and into the open air.

Bard ran a hand across his face, letting out a quiet, shaky sigh. Then with a wave of his hand, he gestured to the road, inviting Thranduil to show him the way.

The silence grew uncomfortable as they walked down a rocky path leading to the edge of the forest. From time to time Thranduil sent a look over his shoulder, and he was always met with a blank expression on a tired face. He almost felt pity for Bard. He didn't even want to imagine what the rest of his life was like, after having glimpsed what had happened in the tavern. Thranduil was not really a talkative man, but he prefered conversation to a weird and heavy atmosphere.

“That was close, back there,” he tried in a conversational tone, his eyes not leaving the road; one was never too careful, especially when one looked even a little bit rich.

“Aye,” Bard replied. “Wouldn't have happened if I hadn't hurt you.”

To this, Thranduil turned and stared at the Shapeshifter with a raised eyebrow.

“You didn't hurt me. It's hardly a scratch.”

Bard didn't answer. He just looked apologetically at Thranduil, straight in the eyes and crossing his arms over his chest. 

Thranduil couldn't believe this. “Are you seriously blaming yourself for being careful towards a stranger knowing too much about you?”

“Yes, I am,” he said in a hissing voice, gaze hard and cold. “A scratch that could have gotten me killed, as well as innocent people, even that kid, or you.”

Thranduil rolled his eyes, not hiding his exasperation.

“As you can see, everyone's fine. You can stop blaming yourself for something that didn't happen.”

“And you can stop telling me how to fee—”

“We're almost there,” Thranduil cut him off, not wishing to go on this way. Silence was better, in the end. If he was lucky, Bard would think a bit more until they arrived, and would realize how useless his train of thought was. He had defended himself, that was all. Even being hurt—and that was a big word—by it, Thranduil couldn't deny Bard had just been careful, nothing more. There was no reason to be sorry for anything; no one had died. But if Bard wanted to feel bad over non-existent consequences, it was not Thranduil's problem. Why would he care, anyway?

They said nothing else until they reached Thranduil's house; it was big and looked rich, but there was something rural about it. Maybe it was the flowers and plants all over the facade. Maybe it was how old it looked. In any case, it was lovely, and no one would have guessed 'Lord Thranduil' lived there if they didn't already know he did.

Thranduil headed towards the door, not bothering to look behind him in order to check if Bard was following, only turning after he had stopped in front of the wooden door and had opened it to stand in the threshold. Bard stood a few feet away, taking in the sight of the house.

Thranduil cleared his throat and Bard's eyes fell on him. He gave a half smile before he approached at a slow pace, darting Thranduil an unreadable look.

“Nice house,” he said as he walked past Thranduil, laying a now curious gaze on the decoration. In Thranduil's home, Bard looked as out of place as Thranduil had been in the tavern. He frowned at the mess that was Bard; so much dirt covering only one person. That simply wouldn't do.

“Of course. It won't stay as nice if you go around like this.” Bard raised an eyebrow, apparently not getting the point he was trying to make. Had he no idea of the state he was in? “We'll start the visit with the bathroom.”

“Oh.” Bard's smile widened as if he was amused, and he ran a hand through his messy hair.

Walking by his side, Thranduil lead Bard to a room at the other end of the house. All the way, as Thranduil indicated a particular room or another, Bard inspected the walls, admiring the paintings and the fine objects decorating them as much as the furniture. He looked amazed by pretty much everything, as if he had never seen such things, or at least not in a long time.

Once they arrived to the bathroom, Thranduil opened its door and gestured Bard to go inside.

“There's everything you need. Clean yourself up, wash your clothes. Then join me in the main room. You'll find some clothes to put on until yours are dry in the cabinet there.”

He indicated a wooden bath cabinet in the corner before he closed the door, not waiting for an answer, and went to the kitchen.

There, Thranduil cleaned the cut on his neck—which was not much, really—before he poured some water in glasses, and put some cheese and bread along with grapes on a tray. He then headed to the main room and set it down on the carved wooden table. Thranduil finally allowed himself to relax, letting his tense muscles have a little rest.

He might have looked impassive, but Thranduil was still a man. A man who in the space of a few hours, had been physically threatened, been at the center of an altercation between a man who could have been put to death in front of him and a bunch of angry peasants. That was a lot to take in, and yet he was now at home, with a stranger in his bathroom. Things had definitely not turned out as he had expected, even though in the end it was the same as he had planned.

He didn't feel in danger in Bard's presence. There was even something reassuring about him once you put your prejudices aside, as if you could put your life in his hands and he would take care of it; which was a good thing, since that was exactly what Thranduil intended to do.

Such was the subject of his thoughts when Bard entered the room, dressed in brown pants, a large white shirt, and barefoot. He had put his purse belt on, and Thranduil guessed it had to have some importance to him for carrying it inside a house in which there were just them and mice.

Thranduil gestured for Bard to sit in the seat facing him. Now that Bard was clean, some things were clearer; Thranduil could see scars similar to the one on his neck marking the visible skin of his chest and going, Thranduil guessed, to his armpit. He wondered how many more scars littered Bard's body, but didn't linger on such thoughts.

“I expected you to have servants,” Bard said as he sat, eye going from Thranduil's face to the plate of food.

“Please, help yourself.”

Bard hesitated, but didn't wait to be told twice; he reached for a bit of bread and some cheese, holding them as if they were something sacred and rare. It said a lot about his way of living. Bard ate with no rush, enjoying each bite, and that was a sight which made Thranduil seriously reconsider if he himself was really taking his time to eat his own food as much as he thought he did.

“I have two. I sent them home to their families this morning,” Thranduil replied then as he drank a bit of the water. “They'll come back once I'll be gone, and take care of the place until my return.”

Bard put a grape in his mouth, bit, and if the contentment in his eye was anything to go by, deeply enjoyed the sweetness on his tongue. Probably one of many pleasures long lost. He looked much more relaxed than when they had arrived, as if he felt safe in here. Yes, there was still a tension, some kind of rigidity in his shoulders that showed he hadn't lowered his guard yet, but Thranduil could feel how much more at ease he now felt.

“Thank you.” Bard laid a surprisingly kind gaze on him, and smiled lightly. “For all this.”

Thranduil made a dismissive wave of his hand, then chose a piece of bread and proceeded to put some cheese on it, as well as grapes.

“I would never have let you sit on these seats with all that dirt.”

“Sure.” Bard tucked a lock of hair behind his ear as he brought the glass of water to his lips and took a sip. “I guess the food is because you don't want me to die of starvation on your lovely floor?”

“That's pretty much it, yes,” Thranduil answered, now smiling slightly, though genuinely. Such a smile felt strange to him, like finding an old childhood toy and not immediately recognizing everything about it, from how it looked to what it felt to hold it in your hands. But it wasn't unpleasant, to feel the corners of his mouth curving in a natural, unforced way.

They stayed silent, staring at each other. Thranduil's eyes wandered over Bard’s face, and he wondered, wondered so many things. This man was a mystery, and what he could see of his body brought on many questions: how had he gotten half-blinded, disfigured? What about the scars on his neck? The ones hidden under his clothes? How had the people from his hometown known about his true nature in the first place, when he was so careful? But Thranduil would not pry, no matter how curious he was. He had not doubt Bard had maybe as many questions about him that Thranduil wouldn't answer, not now, maybe not ever.

Thranduil let out a sigh of contentment as he finished eating his bread and lay back against his seat, under Bard's slightly amused gaze.

“You look like—” he stopped there, but it surprised Thranduil enough to raise a perplexed eyebrow, making Bard wince; whatever the comment was meant to be, he hadn't expected anything like that to ever come out of Bard's mouth. “Never mind,” Bard muttered under his breath.

“Let's start, shall we?” Thranduil suggested, to change the subject and stop the awkwardness from taking too much space in the atmosphere. As Bard nodded, leaning more comfortably against the back of the seat, Thranduil continued. “The reasons I need your help are simple: your skills are like no others, and your experience of the road makes you the man I need to get to Erebor safely.”

“Yes, I know that. I'd have to guide you near Erebor in a three-month trip,” Bard said. “But that's not all, isn't it?”

“Indeed.” Thranduil took a deep breath before he talked again. “Have you heard of the Pack?”

Bard's sudden stiffness answered Thranduil better than any words. He said nothing at first, but his eyes turned colder, more distant. If everybody knew about the Pack, no one liked to talk about them. Bard looked away for a moment before he stared into Thranduil's eyes again.

“Yes. A group of robbers. Killers too. Lead by two wolf Shapeshifters.”

“And do you know what happened to them?” Thranduil asked.

“I know they've been disbanded.”

Thranduil laughed upon hearing that. But it was a sarcastic laugh, filled with bitterness and nothing more.

“Disbanded? You could say that.” He smirked at Bard. “Slaughtered would be a better word. A carnage it was, they said. Those who weren't there when their leaders died were lucky.”

Bard didn't answer, not the slightest emotion showing on his face. He just looked at Thranduil, waiting for him to explain what he meant.

“You know about their stash, don't you?” Thranduil said, clasping his hands on his lap in an almost conspiratorial way.

Bard's eyes widened instantly. “You want me to get you there?” Only then did he realize, and whispered, “That's why you really need a Shapeshifter.”

“Yes, and no. You happen to be the only supposedly known Shapeshifter around. Were you not, I would have made the same offer, if only for your skills.” Thranduil's voice was as calm as a quiet river. “Only a Shapeshifter can find and open the entrance. Without the Pack's leaders, their men had no reason to care about the stash, and left all its stolen treasures to rot in there. It shouldn't be difficult now there's no one left to care for it.”

“You're a fool if you think it'll be easy,” Bard said, frowning. “Others are interested in the mountain, waiting around it for a chance. Probably some of the Pack's men, who know better than anyone else its secrets.”

“I know, but I don't care. With you, we'll manage.” The conviction in Thranduil's deep voice was firm, leaving no place for doubts, and maybe too much self-confidence. “They've stolen something precious from me. I want it back.”

“What is it?” Bard asked.

Thranduil let out a sigh. Bard had been clear; he'd have to know everything he wanted to know if Thranduil wanted him to accept his offer. He didn't have much of a choice anyway. Thranduil knew Bard would say yes, though; saying no was throwing away too many opportunities, including the chance to go back to a normal life with his children. It was also taking the risk to leave Thranduil with his secret. But refusing Bard deeper explanations wouldn't do any good to their relationship, either. They would have to support each other for at least six months, after all.

“A ring. Family heirloom,” Thranduil whispered, expression blank but emotion laced his voice. Some kind of grief, which made Bard's eyes narrow as if he had sensed it, and Thranduil held his gaze. But it didn't seem Bard was going to ask anything else, and Thranduil was thankful for it. It could wait.

“You get me to the mountain, we get my ring back, you bring me back here. In return, I offer you a home and a new life,” Thranduil said, another small smirk playing on his lips. “What do you say?”

At first Bard didn't even look at him. He had turned to stare into the void, as if lost in deep thoughts. Thranduil didn't know how long it lasted, but he saw how Bard's face progressively changed. It seemed Bard had some difficulties believing the chance he was given was real.

Thranduil thought he noticed tears slightly wetting Bard's good eye, but it was gone as soon as he had thought he’d seen it. When Bard finally turned back to face him, never had Thranduil seen so much hope in one's gaze.

Bard held out his hand.

Thranduil smiled and shook it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Shitty doodles](http://img15.hostingpics.net/pics/75056619fr.jpg) of Bard's scars and clothes, as well as Thranduil's, just to give you an idea ♫
> 
> About 'This wasn't a vicious beast, but an intelligent, gentle creature, whose soul reflected his own', I don't own this quote, it's from How To Train Your Dragon 2, but I absolutely wanted to put it in!
> 
> Here ends our prologue + first chapter! There's a lot to digest, I'm sorry about that, but I liked the ending too much to cut the chapter in two. The next ones won't be as long as this one. ~~also the writing will hopefully be better~~
> 
> I wasn't planning on posting this story until a little while because I wanted to have a few chapters ready, but I've kept delaying it for way too long, so I published it in hopes feedback and the 'pressure' of starting a new multi-chap fic would get my little ass moving, and give me some confidence back. The second chap is almost finished, and I started writing the third one, too. :)
> 
> And the whole story is plotted in a notebook, all I have to do is write it all! 
> 
> Anyway, I hope you liked it! This is a 'big' project I've been thinking about for months, and it's very dear to me but if writing it is exciting (and gosh, very scary), it is sharing it with you all that is the thing I've been most looking forward to. Please let me know your thoughts/if you enjoyed it, it's the only way I can know if it's all worth it! :3
> 
> Thank you to [Iza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/) for her great work on the editing! <3 Check out her stories!!


	3. Bree II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay! But here is chapter two! :)

It was strange to lay upon a comfortable bed, to rest his head on a pillow of feathers and feel soft silken sheets against his rough, scarred skin. Bard had slept well, or at least better than any time in the past three years, in this room he happened to hate. It smelled of lavender and fresh leaves; pleasant to breathe, and a far cry from the mud and the dirt of villages' streets. The furniture was strictly what was necessary, simple though with a hint of luxury; the wood was carved, and beautiful paintings decorated the walls.

But the reason Bard hated this room wasn't for its looks. He hated it for the large mirror in the right corner, which kept catching his eye; what Bard hated the most about this room was none other than himself.

He hadn't seen his own reflection properly since the day he had been exiled, and he didn't like the man in the mirror. This man was a ghost, a shadow of what he once was. Bard despised him, more than anything.

Bard sat on the bed and looked down to his hands, then at his feet. It was odd to see the colour of his skin again, now the mud and the dirt were gone. Still, they were covered in small scars from cuts and burns; memories of ropes against skin, sharp rocks against palms and bare feet.

He ran a hand across his face, letting his fingers linger over the scar, as if to make sure it was still there, even though just opening his eyes reminded him of its presence. He always feared there was something in his blind spot, ready to hurt or kill; something that would prevent him from seeing his children again. The idea itself was unbearable, and Bard shook his head to send the thought away. Then he proceeded to get up, heading for the bucket near the window.

He splashed some cold water on his face, and sighed.

“What are you getting yourself into, Bard?” he asked the man in the mirror, getting closer to let his fingers linger over the reflection of his tired features. Bard stared into his own eye before his hand clenched into a fist, and pressed it against the surface.

“A few months. Just a few months and you'll see your children again.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes for a second. “If they even manage to look at you.”

Bard looked away, repulsed by the sight he made himself endure.

He didn't hate the beast he was. He just hated what it meant, what it had put and was still putting him through. He didn't hate himself as a physical person. It was his scars, his state of being, reminding him of what he had left behind and at what cost. It was the fear of what his children would think of him if they were ever going to be reunited.

Bard was proud of the monster he was, as they called him. But he hated the pain it brought upon himself and anyone he dared to love.

There was something else taking place inside his chest, though: it was hope, and as much as he loved the thought, wanted to believe it was real, Bard didn't like it. Hope was dangerous, stronger than fear, yet more fragile. One didn’t get rid of fear easily. But hope? Once broken, hope could tear one apart with more pain and cruelty than any fear. Hope could disappear in the blink of an eye and leave one empty of all will.

Bard didn't trust hope.

Not anymore, because it had always betrayed him.

But how could he not try?

Bard groaned, stood before the door. He could smell the pleasant fragrances of baked eggs and fresh bread coming from the kitchen right under his room. He put a hesitant hand on the doorknob, wondering what he would say to his host. He didn't know what to think of him yet; it was too soon to jump to conclusions, positive or negative.

Bard opened the door to find his clothes folded on the floor. He stared at the old rugged cloak, pants and tunic, which were pretty much all that he owned, now free of all dirt. It was as strange as seeing his own body clean, as if they were an extension of himself.

He crouched to get them, let his fingers rub the fabric. It wasn't much, but it was enough; he had never wished for more.

He didn't bother to close the door again as he took off the white shirt he had borrowed, his gaze lingering with bitterness on the reflection of his bare chest for a second before he put his own clothes on.

“Rich people and their mirrors,” Bard muttered under his breath as he turned away, looking through the window, which offered a beautiful view of the forest, peaceful and pure under the kind sunlight of the morning. He took in the atmosphere offered to him with gladness, letting its quiet comfort soothes his still slightly tensed mind. It would have been a lie to say he hadn't felt this safe in a long time. Somehow, even though he remained vigilant, he trusted Thranduil enough to feel like he could breathe a little better.

Some would say he was a fool. But if there was something Bard wasn't, it was uncareful. If Thranduil had wanted to hurt him, report him, he would have done it already. There was no point in treating him like a guest, letting him rest in a comfortable bed, offering him good food and fresh water, if he had bad intentions. Thranduil would be of no harm to him until he got his precious ring back. Until then, Bard felt deep in his gut he had nothing to fear from his host, and his gut never lied.

After all, he was an animal. If there was one thing he could trust about himself, it was his instinct.

And his instinct, along with simple logic, told Bard Thranduil wasn't a danger to him.

It was the growling of his stomach that brought Bard back to reality. He gave the forest one last look before he left the room and went down the stairs, his gaze sometimes stopping on the paintings hanging on the walls. All of them portrayed people with blonde hair, which Bard assumed to be Thranduil's family. There were some of a boy, then the same boy as a young man, as well as a beautiful woman.

There was one of Thranduil, the boy and the woman all together, looking happy. This was the one Bard admired the longest, their smiles almost bringing one to his own lips. Yet soon enough he remembered Thranduil had not spoken of a son, nor a wife. There could be many reasons for that, but this house had something empty about it. Even though Thranduil lived here, it felt like the ghost of a home. There was no soul to it, no matter how pretty it looked; there hadn't been a proper family in there for too long a time.

It was almost surprising the paintings hadn't been removed.

Bard wouldn't ask questions, though. It was none of his business.

And so the tug of the smile at the corner of Bard's mouth disappeared as fast as it had come, already forgotten.

Bard went to the kitchen, stopping before the door. The smell of good food filled the air, warm and welcoming. It reminded him of his old home, when he used to cook with his wife and later on with Sigrid. He didn't linger too long on those heartwarming memories though, for he knew how painful and bittersweet they could quickly turn.

Bard stood in the threshold, watching Thranduil fry the eggs, unaware of the eye Bard lay on him. Thranduil was nothing he had ever seen: his long hair looked like a waterfall of silver falling down his back; he was tall, yet looked as breakable as a thin branch; and his eyes were icy blue, deep and cold, under dark thick eyebrows. It would have been a lie to say he wasn't beautiful.

Thranduil turned then, as if he had finally felt Bard’s presence, and met his gaze. He gestured to a chair at the kitchen table.

“Breakfast?” was his greeting, but his voice had nothing friendly; it was emotionless, formal, and held no warmth.

Bard nodded and went to sit, keeping his eye on Thranduil, who proceeded to transfer the eggs from the pan to plates.

“Your clothes still smelled,” Thranduil said as he put a plate in front of him, and then pushed the bread in his direction. “I took the liberty of washing them again and putting them away for you.”

Bard rolled his eyes, fingers playing with the fork he had been given. “You'd better get used to it.”

Thranduil took place in front of him, but he got nothing other than a raised eyebrow as only answer. Bard didn't mind; Thranduil would learn by himself soon enough. He wouldn't find any luxury on the road, even the simplest ones, and that included not having the smell of dirt on skin and clothes.

They said nothing as Bard stared at the ridiculous fork he was trying to hold the correct way, brows furrowed in frustration. Sure, he knew it wasn't complicated. But it was silverware; such a rich people's thing. It seemed so small in his rough, calloused hands unused to finery; so much that he couldn't hold it without it slipping from his fingers like water between rocks.

Bard cursed under his breath.

“Well, won't you eat?”

Bard stiffened upon hearing Thranduil's words. He didn't meet Thranduil’s eyes; he didn't wish to know what they were holding. He didn't care what Thranduil thought of him, even though he knew very well how pathetic he looked.

Yet when a napkin appeared in his field of view and the fork was abruptly taken away from his hand, Bard's head shot up, eyes slightly widened. In Thranduil's gaze he didn't see any judgement, and there wasn't coldness, either.

“I don't want you to die of starvation on my floor, remember?” Thranduil said, gesturing vaguely to Bard's hands. With that Thranduil just went back to his own plate, as if nothing had happened, as if what he was encouraging Bard to do wasn't anything that mattered to him.

That was unexpected, and Bard was grateful for not being treated as less than he was.

Without a second thought Bard reached for the food, cutting the bread in two and putting some of the eggs on it.

They ate in silence.

Three years ago, in a similar situation, Bard would have talked. It used to be natural to him, to have a conversation while eating; sharing thoughts, telling how the night or the day had been. Today, he was so used to loneliness and sharing his food with empty spaces that he barely remembered how it was done. It seemed foreign and far away, out of reach.

In other circumstances it wouldn't have mattered much. It was not like Bard cared about those things anymore. But here, he was going to spend every day and every night with this man—who had just shown unexpected, respectful understanding towards him—for the next three months, assuming they didn't get into any trouble. They would end up talking somehow, whether they wanted it or not.

“How was your night?” Bard tried, not looking up from his plate. Such casual words felt strange on his tongue, but he found he liked speaking them again. It gave him a sense of normalcy even though he couldn't hang onto it; it was just an illusion, for normalcy had left his life long ago.

“Fine.” For a moment Bard thought he wouldn't get anything more from Thranduil, but then he spoke again. “Yours?”

“Well enough,” Bard lied; he didn't wish to express how he hadn't slept that well in the past three years, how he had forgotten what sleeping in such a bed felt like. It wasn't anyone's right to know but his.

Surprisingly, Bard didn't have to think about saying something else or letting the room drop into silence again, for Thranduil's eyes met his, commanding and cold, demanding for attention.

“Is it true,” he asked, expression turning unreadable, “that you killed a dragon?”

Bard stared at him for a moment, taking in the unexpected question. He finished the last bits of his breakfast, and only then did he lean back against his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and let his own gaze pierce through Thranduil's, unflinching; holding it, embracing it.

“Yes,” was his answer, and that was all he had to say on the matter.

Thranduil, apparently, didn’t share that opinion.

“How?” Thranduil inquired, his eyes now holding a slight hint of curiosity.

“How did I kill the dragon?”

Thranduil rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

Bard considered the other man for a moment, wondering why that was of any importance to him. Maybe he was just curious, yes. Yet Thranduil didn't seem to be the kind of man to care for those things people could lie about. After all, who said it wasn't just a story?

“A longbow, an arrow, and a lot of luck,” Bard said, his position unchanged.

Thranduil tilted his head slightly to the side, and raised an eyebrow. “Why use daggers, then?”

“Element of surprise. Also more convenient.” Bard shrugged, even let a grin show on his grim face, before he explained further. “Good bows cost a lot. As you can guess, I can't afford one. They would also make it more difficult to go unnoticed if needed. And—”

He took out his smaller dagger from his belt's sheath, presented it to Thranduil.

“People don't expect someone like me to defend themselves with such little things.”

Thranduil smirked. “I've had a taste of that, yes.”

Bard didn't reply to that; he just put the dagger back where it belonged, and kept an apologetic gaze on Thranduil's face.

He hadn't been completely honest, and wouldn't be. There was one other reason he didn't use bow and arrows anymore; since the day he had lost use of his left eye, he had also lost some of his depth perception. Even the daggers had been difficult to use for the first months (which had put his life in danger a few times). Many things had been: reaching for close objects, pouring water, and taking stairs quickly, amongst other things. Even today he sometimes still missed.

However, with time and habit, those problems had been largely overcome.

Which hadn't been the case with archery. He hadn't practiced since the day he had tried using one and noticed how he wasn't able to aim correctly at the target anymore. He didn't even know if it was possible, and didn't care much.

It was a shame, but he had no use for archery anymore, anyways. Another thing he’d had to leave behind.

Yet somehow, Thranduil seemed to know. Bard felt the weight of his gaze piercing through his eye. He didn't look away; he deserved to keep his own secrets, protect his weaknesses; he had no doubt Thranduil had his own, hidden in the deepest corners of his being.

“So, shall we start?” Bard asked when Thranduil finally put his fork down, breaking the silence that had been quickly spreading between them.

Thranduil stood up and gestured to the door. “I'll go get the map. Wait for me in the living room.”

Bard nodded as Thranduil turned and left the room, and was quick to go to the living room as directed. He was turning a deer made of carved wood over in his hands when Thranduil came back, a rolled map under his arm and water in his hands. He raised an eyebrow at him, his eyes going from the deer to Bard's face before he gestured to the table.

Bard put the statuette down, before he joined Thranduil who was unrolling the map on the surface beside the glasses of water, his movements slow and careful, and his long hair falling down the sides of his face in a silvery cascade.

Thranduil then looked up to stare expectantly, his fingers tapping the border of the table in a steady but quick rhythm.

Bard stared back, then asked, “Yes?”

“Won't you do what I'm hiring you for?” Thranduil sighed.

“Ah.” Bard looked down to the map; it was detailed, torn on the edges, and had to cost a fortune. Bard tried to concentrate, but the tapping of Thranduil's fingers filled the room and grew faster. Bard closed his eyes for a second. “Can you please stop that?” he asked as calmly as he could manage.

Thranduil rolled his eyes, but stopped right away. “Do you know the best way to get there or not?”

“I do,” Bard answered, trying to ignore how annoyed he was by Thranduil's impatience. “Just give me a minute. I haven't read a map in years.”

“I'm surprised you can even read,” Thranduil said flatly, and Bard looked up to glare at him, gritting his teeth. Many would have warned Thranduil that such comments were not welcomed, and that any more would lead to breaking their arrangement. But Bard didn't have a choice; Thranduil was his only chance to be reunited with his children, and Thranduil knew this.

“Do you want me to do what I'm here for, or not?”

To this Thranduil didn't answer, and let Bard work in silence.

He studied the map, tracing possible roads with the tips of his fingers. Bard knew most of them; after he had been exiled from his town, he had barely stopped wandering. Only the first months had been easier, for rumours coming from Laketown had yet to spread. During that time he had found shelter to heal, and work to get the money he had needed to buy new clothes better fit for travel, and weapons to protect himself from harm—whether it came from the wild, or from people.

Twice over the past three years he had made the journey to Erebor, there and back again. As a consequence, he knew of its safest roads, of its strange lands and their creatures. Without a word he decided on the fastest, best way to get to their destination, and in silence Thranduil watched him.

When at last the path was clear in his mind, Bard straightened up, and looked towards Thranduil; he hadn't moved, but his arms were crossed over his chest, and his face still held the lines of concentration that had had to mark his face while Bard had read the map.

“Three months, maybe more if there are—and there will be—complications,” Bard said. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes,” Thranduil replied without a second of hesitation. Whatever the ring he sought was worth, it had to mean a lot to him. There were other questions filling Bard's mind, such as why Thranduil had waited so long—it had been eight years since the Pack had lost its leaders, and dispersed itself.

Bard nodded, pushing his thoughts aside, and pointed to the arid lowlands cutting the land in two. “We'll have to cross the forest to get there. We’ll take the main road. Then we must get new stocks of food and water for the journey—it is unlikely we'll find any in the lowlands at this time of the year. It should take us five to seven days.”

He then pointed to the great lake's shore, and for a moment his eyes fixed Laketown, on the other side of it. “We'll rest on the shore for a day or two, before walking to Rivendell. Four to six days, if we don't lose our way in the lowlands and end up further from the town than expected,” Bard explained. “We'll stay in town for as long as you think it necessary, but it'll be good to rest and get provisions again, though we'll have to keep a low profile.”

Bard glanced to Thranduil, who nodded; Bard was relieved he hadn't found anything to question yet, for Thranduil seemed the type to speak up if he were dissatisfied.

“Then, the Broken Forest. It might be the most dangerous part of the journey—we could reach the mountains through the forest, but its flora is often poisoned.” Thranduil frowned upon hearing that, but spoke not. Bard continued, “On the other hand, the open road is the fastest way to take, but there will be no hiding. If we decide to walk the forest's edge, we can only hope we'll be lucky.”

“We could be killed either way,” Thranduil said. “Better take the fastest way.”

With a nod of his head Bard agreed, and pointed to the mountains. “There, we'll find a tunnel through the mountains. It should be safe.”

“The horses won't be able to walk that tunnel, if it is as narrow as I heard it is.”

“The horses?” Bard raised an eyebrow, and then laughed. “You want us to use _horses_?”

Thranduil's face was ice cold. “Yes. We can't go by foot, it'll take us twice as long. If we can make it in a month and a half instead of three, we will.”

“Horses will be an inconvenience. With them, there are paths we cannot take, either because they can't walk it, or because they'll make us noticeable,” Bard explained, ignoring the frown that had taken place on Thranduil's face. “No horses.”

Thranduil made a dismissive wave of his hand. “Fine.”

“If needed, you'll ride my back,” Bard said, and reached out for the glass of water. He took a few sips, and when he looked back to Thranduil, he was being stared at.

“Excuse me—your back?” Thranduil said, his eyes slightly widened in what seemed to be utter confusion.

“If we need to flee, it'll be our best chance,” Bard replied, hiding his amusement. “Trust me, I don't like it either.”

“If we use unknown roads, why not travel that way?” Thranduil asked. “It'll save us a lot of time.”

Bard shook his head as he put the glass back on the table. “Turning takes a lot of energy. Once back in this form, I will be weakened and vulnerable, unless I get enough rest. Which can't be for certain on such a journey.”

Thranduil seemed to weigh Bard's word. He looked away, like in deep thought, as his fingers played with one of the corners of the map.

“Why not stay in your animal form?” he asked, though his eyes still didn't meet Bard's. “Are there any risks of—”

“The beast taking control? No,” Bard said, and his tone was one's, who, once finished talking, had nothing more to say on the matter. “There is no beast. Just me.”

At that Bard looked down to the map again, and pointed to the next step of their journey. He didn't give Thranduil any time to answer, nor give himself any time to see what crossed Thranduil’s face, nor even to remind him his question hadn't been answered. Bard's reply would have been simple, anyway; he didn't want to get used to it.

Much to his surprise Thranduil didn’t push the subject. “Why not go through the gorges?” he asked instead.

Bard frowned. “The gorges? It'll take us much longer—we'll be about two months into the journey already. Besides, the gorges are the best way to get killed. We won’t go that way.”

Thranduil didn't protest; but in his eyes Bard saw he didn't approve, and he guessed this was a discussion they would need to have at another time. Arguing now wouldn't be of any use, but Bard hoped Thranduil would come around, whatever his reasons for avoiding the tunnel might be.

Bard explained then that once the mountains were crossed, they would reach a quieter land where it was unlikely any harm would come to them, at least until they entered the dark forest surrounding Erebor. 

Once in the forest and closer to the mountain, they would have to improvise, for when Bard asked Thranduil about what he knew of The Pack's stash, he had no clear answer to give. What Bard himself knew of the stash was nothing but rumour and foggy indications; yet these were what they would have to follow.

“And then—” Bard said, when at last he had finished planning and explaining the journey.

“Then you'll bring me back home, and I'll give you your reward,” Thranduil concluded, already rolling up the map.

“There is one more thing.”

Thranduil looked up from the map. Creases marked his forehead.

“If something were to happen to me,” Bard said, and if Thranduil’s face was still impassive, his eyes had taken a darker edge, “I want you to respect our deal, even without me. Will you do that?”

For a long moment Bard thought Thranduil wouldn’t answer. He already felt disappointment making its way in his head, but before Bard could speak up once more, Thranduil looked away, and said, “yes.”

“Swear it.” This time Bard’s voice was sharp. This wasn’t a subject to take lightly. It wasn’t a demand; it was an order.

Thranduil looked back at him, and stared. Bard couldn’t quite decipher Thranduil’s eyes, and doubted Thranduil was a man who had often been ordered to do anything in his life. Yet when he answered, his voice was nothing but calm, and measured.

“I swear it,” he said, and his hand clenched on the map.

Their eyes didn’t lose contact as understanding passed between them, and Bard bowed his head in silent thanks. His heart found a steadier pace.

There was a long journey ahead, and Thranduil wasn't the most pleasant company; yet it had been long since Bard had last been treated as an equal, and despite Thranduil's tactless comments, Bard couldn't find it in himself to be ungrateful. There was nothing he wished more than what Thranduil was offering him, and never had he dared to wish for even this much.

A glimpse of himself in a small mirror hanging to the wall on his right caught his eye. His expression darkened, and he inhaled deeply. Bard had often told himself that he would go to the end of the earth for his children’s safety; no matter the cost, no matter the outcome. 

“You're free to go,” Thranduil said, snapping Bard’s attention back to him. “But be ready to leave in three days.”

“Fine,” Bard replied, but if his voice gave nothing away, the wince he had to retain told another tale; he wasn't eager to spend the night in the cold once more. Bard wasn't one to complain though; the stars, ever watchful, would be waiting for him.

He made to leave, but Thranduil's deep voice stopped him in his tracks.

“And, Bard—”

Bard turned to meet Thranduil's eyes; he saw nothing in them, just a vastness that seemed to never end, similar to the great plains of ice the lowlands turned into when winter came.

“Dinner is served at seven, if you wish, and the door of my home open.”

Once more Bard bowed his head. “Thank you,” he said.

No answer came, and Bard watched without a word as Thranduil walked past him and disappeared through the door. Silence fell on the room. Bard let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding, then ran a hand across his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo this wasn't very exciting, but it was necessary! The adventure begins in the next chapter! :D
> 
> [Here's a map](http://img15.hostingpics.net/pics/662127FRmap.jpg) of the Forgotton Roads world! There's actually a town/village missing somewhere North, and I didn't include the little villages, but all I want right now is going back to bed because I'm sick (yes I got up just to finish the editing and post this, as you can see I know where my priorities are xD), and they won't go through it anyway. Please keep in mind it's not 100% accurate (at all) and it reaaally lacks of details like fields and small rivers and such :) (also the scale is terrible just ignore it) I made it only to help me (and you) picture things a little better.
> 
> Comments are my writing fuel, please let me know if you're still enjoying the story! ♡
> 
> Huge and eternal thanks to my friend [Iza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/) for the editing!


	4. The Forest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it took so long, oh gods.
> 
> Thank you so much to [Iza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/) for the editing! <3

Thranduil woke up to the rumble of thunder and the smell of sweat, his heart racing in his chest. Around him it was dark, and the moon cast hollow shadows upon the walls. The room, as it always did, felt dead and empty, and the sheets under which he lay were cold. The air was heavy; the storm would reach the town soon enough.

The fogs of bad dreams were hard to get out of; they clung to his mind as if to try to keep him in. Like legs stuck in mud or quicksand, or flies going through cobwebs, struggling to be free. Eventually they dispersed, and Thranduil let out a deep breath as his heart found a steadier pace. 

For a while, Thranduil stared at the ceiling, lost in his thoughts as he waited for the rain to fall and its droplets to hit the windows in a relaxing, though fast, beat. Then he would go downstairs and light the fire, and there he would stay until the storm stopped and the sun rose.

Upstairs, his guest couldn't sleep, either; Thranduil knew so, for he could hear the floor creaking above his head, and the murmur of a voice which had to think it could not be heard. Three days in Bard's company since he had found him in the tavern, and already Thranduil knew he would have to get used to the Shapeshifter pacing like a lion in a cage, and to the words he spoke to himself when he thought Thranduil couldn't hear him.

It was almost sad, and Thranduil would have felt pity if he didn't understand; he had sometimes found no better listener than himself since his wife had been taken from him. Bard's habit was one of loneliness, and if there was one thing Thranduil could relate to, it was just that.

With a sigh, Thranduil rose; he had grown used to sleepless nights. Dawn wasn't far, and he knew sleep wouldn't find him again.

Thranduil went to the kitchen where he served himself a glass of wine; certainly a pleasure he would have to live without for the next few months. With it he filled another glass of water, and went to the living room. There he lit the fire, and once done Thranduil sat in his chair. He sipped the wine, his eyes fixed on the flames as the first drops of rain fell harshly against the windows.

It hadn't been long since he sat down that Bard joined him. Thranduil started, still unused to Bard's stealth. Thranduil bowed his head in greeting as Bard took the glass of water and went to sit in the seat nearest to the fire.

It had gone just like this, the two nights previous. It hadn't taken him long to understand and remember Bard's habits, just like he guessed Bard had learned his. It wasn't much, but there was something comforting in the knowledge that Bard paid attention.

Thunder roared, and at last Bard spoke. “You should try to sleep, tomorrow will be a long day.”

Thranduil turned the wine in its glass. “Shouldn't you, too?”

Bard shook his head. “I slept more in these past days than I usually do in a week,” he said. “I'll be okay.”

A last sip of his wine and Thranduil put the glass on the low table. He gave Bard no more answer, and wasn't spoken to again. He closed his eyes, listened to the howling of the wind, and hoped their journey wouldn't be as agitated as the storm raging outside his home.

All was ready; Bard had assured Thranduil that he knew and would remember the way, food was in satchels, and waterskins were filled. If they wanted to travel fast, they would have no use of anything else. Bard had been clear: at night the ground would have to do, and they could only count on their clothes and each other's back to stay warm.

From the moment they would step outside of town, there would be no turning back.

 

Thranduil was woken once more by someone shaking his shoulder.

“I let you sleep a little longer,” Bard's voice came from behind him. “But it is time.”

Before him the fire had died, and the sounds of rain and thunder were gone; replaced by it was the chirping of birds and in the air was the warmth of summer. There was a sweet smell, too, which made Thranduil stand.

He followed it to the kitchen into which Bard had just disappeared. Inside, he was drinking some water, already dressed for the journey. His hair was wet as if he had washed it one last time.

The room was as clean as Thranduil had left it the night before, as if no cooking of any sort had happened despite the food on the table.

“I'm surprised he didn't burn down the whole house,” Thranduil said under his breath. Bard must have heard, for he snorted and shook his head with a roll of his eyes.

“I'm a good enough at observing, and learning. My memory isn't bad, either. Just eat,” Bard said, gesturing to the plate on the table. “I'll have a last look at the map.”

Thranduil lay suspicious eyes on the scrambled eggs as Bard left the room. He sat, and ate; it wasn't as bad as he had thought it would be. If Bard could improvise this well on the road, maybe he wouldn't miss good food as much as he had believed. 

Bard joined him not long after, and ate as well, though only a little.

Neither spoke, for there was little to be said. They would have plenty of time for small talk in the months to come.

Stomachs were filled, Thranduil got appropriately dressed, and when the time came to leave at midday, Bard was patient; Thranduil felt Bard’s eyes on his back as he lay his own on the home he was leaving behind. But he would come back; Bard would do whatever it took to protect Thranduil if it meant getting back to his children. This much Thranduil knew.

He thought of the promise he had made Bard only a few days before. He hadn't thought of this; of how there would be so much more at stake than his own life, and the ring he sought to retrieve. Unlike Bard, he had no one to get back home to. No one who hoped to see him again.

But what were Bard and children he did not know worth to him? Thranduil thought. Still he didn't like the thought of meeting those children to tell them their father would never come back, even if it had been at the price of a better life for them.

Thranduil shook his head and closed his eyes. Bard knew what he was getting himself into. If he had to die, so be it, and his children would get his reward.

He turned to meet Bard's gaze. It was unreadable, but the small, faint light of hope that had settled there hadn't faded.

With a quick gesture of his hand to the road and a nod of his head, Thranduil told Bard he was ready to go. 

Off they went.

Bard led the way, the heaviest of the bags on his strong shoulders. He hadn't spoken since breakfast, and Thranduil was glad for it. His thoughts still lingered in the halls of his home. He wondered if he would ever walk them again, but also if getting his ring back would bring him any comfort. 

Thranduil could only wish it would.

But he had waited a long time for this; now was not the time to doubt his will to retrieve it at last.

Soon enough, they reached the large road going through the forest that separated the town and its surroundings from the low-lands. The place was dangerous if one strayed from the path, but it was even more so if one was much like Thranduil, though today he looked like a traveller—not the Lord he truly was.

He stopped by Bard's side. The Shapeshifter stood there, his eyes lingering on the forest. They hadn't talked much about this part of the journey, for it had seemed clear to Thranduil that they would take this path. But Thranduil knew Bard had better knowledge of the road than he did, and so he said nothing.

Bard didn't speak for what felt like a long time, but when at last he spoke, his voice wasn't as assured as Thranduil had assumed it would be.

“We can't take the road,” he said.

Thranduil frowned. “Why not? It's the fastest way.”

“Robbers,” Bard added. “Further ahead. We chose a bad day to leave.”

“We have nothing.”

“Times are hard. They will take whatever they can,” Bard said. “We're easy targets, and I'll be killed on sight if they recognize me.”

“The rules forbid them to,” Thranduil protested. “They have no proof.”

“They are robbers,” Bard reminded him. “They care not for rules.”

Bard glanced at him, and Thranduil knew he could read his thoughts as well as if Thranduil had spoken them aloud; Thranduil had thought those outside the law supported each other, at least enough not to attack each other.

“We can—”

“It is better not to take any risks,” Bard cut him off, in a softer way than could be expected. “Follow me.”

Without a look to Thranduil, Bard got moving. Gritting his teeth, Thranduil followed; he was not used to being ordered to do anything, but this he would have to get used to. He had no power here, not with his life in Bard's hands, and he had to trust Bard if he wanted to reach his goal in one piece. Without him, Thranduil might as well just go back home.

Bard led him through the trees. The forest was darker than it had looked from the border. The trees were tall and proud, and when Thranduil looked ahead, it felt as if the woods knew no end. At his feet, leaves and roots were a strange blueish green, and he had to be careful not to trip with every step he took. Not far ahead Bard moved with ease. He seemed to be in his element here. Thranduil could almost have believed he knew where each root lay, where each hole had been dug.

They walked under large leaves, from which drops of water fell onto the ground and wet the earth. Already mud covered Thranduil's boots. He grunted with each step, for the mud stuck to his feet and made it harder to move smoothly. Even Bard was slower, but still he seemed to know how to make the most of it, and kept looking back to Thranduil, as if to make sure he was still there.

Thranduil didn't know how long it took to see the end of it, but when at last their feet walked on sturdier ground, night was already falling.

“Wasn't there another way?” Thranduil asked, more to show his discomfort than anything else. It was the first time he had spoken since the choice to leave the road had been made.

“No,” Bard replied simply, then said, “Stay close.”

Sweat prickled the skin of Thranduil's neck, feeling the edge in Bard's voice. He looked around, but saw nothing. Only darkness amongst the trees.

“Hold my arm,” Bard said then. “I'll guide us somewhere we can eat and rest.”

Thranduil reluctantly did as he was told, and Bard set the rhythm. Thranduil thanked the rays of moonlight that started to pierce through the canopy of the trees; without them, he would have seen nothing but blackness. He didn't know how Bard managed to move so fast in such a dark place. He, by himself, wouldn't have gone far without a torch to light his path.

Bard only stopped again when they reached a more luxurious part of the forest. Thranduil's feet felt heavy. They were sticky, but not from mud. He had never walked this much in his life. Yet Thranduil didn't complain; he was too proud to.

He watched as Bard cut through bushes covered in spikes, revealing a large, empty space, protected from all that was around it. Thranduil couldn't see well, but he swore it looked like someone or something had often hid there.

“How did you do that?” Thranduil asked as he sat on the ground with a quiet sigh of relief. He took off his boots, glad for the bite of the cold on his flesh, and rubbed his hands together. Now they had stopped, he felt how cold the night was with more force than before.

“Do what?”

“Do you see in the dark?”

There was a short silence, and then, “Well enough.” And that was all. Thranduil figured that he shouldn’t ask any further.

Bard set a small fire while Thranduil got water and food from the bags. They had already finished a waterskin over the day, and had some bites of bread. Dinner was simple; dried meat, some more bread, and an apple. 

The warmth of the fire was welcome against Thranduil's hands. He looked to Bard, who was sitting not far from him, eyes closed. The flames dug shadows in the lines of his face, and made the scar that crossed it fade.

Thranduil looked back to his foot, which he inspected with a wince. It was ugly, and Thranduil thought he had been an idiot not to anticipate it. 

“Let me see your feet,” Bard suddenly said. It sounded more like a command than a question, though it was spoken gently.

“I'm sorry?”

“Your feet,” Bard repeated. “It will be hard for you until they get used to walking so much. I know it is not pleasant—I'll help, if you will let me.”

Thranduil only stared for a moment, but he eventually sighed and gestured his consent for Bard to get closer. He knew well that soothing his pain now would make tomorrow easier.

Bard was surprisingly delicate as he inspected Thranduil's bare feet, and his fingers were warm. Then, he searched into the satchels hanging to his belt, and took out some herbs, as well as a small bowl from his bag. He started making a paste, a line of concentration on his forehead.

Thranduil frowned.

So this was what the money Thranduil had given Bard had served for. He had bought medicinal plants to complete, Thranduil was sure, the ones he had spent hours looking for when he had left the house for long hours over the past three days.

A paste was made, which Bard offered to him. “Apply as much as you need,” Bard instructed, then went to sit by the entrance giving on the forest. He stared into the darkness, and murmured, “I'll take the watch.”

Thranduil had to refrain from sighing in relief as he applied the paste over the blisters. It had a pleasant smell, and its soothing effect was immediate.

“Thank you,” Thranduil said when he was done. Bard only nodded, his eyes not leaving the darkness.

Then, Thranduil lay in grass and leaves, and let sleep claim him.

The days that followed were much of the same. Bard led him through the forest as if he knew it by heart. He probably did. Bard always walked a few steps ahead, but never stopped sending glances behind him. “Do you wish to rest?” he would ask a few times a day. “No,” Thranduil would answer, and Bard would nod, and they would walk on until Bard would offer again, in a tone that made it clear that Thranduil didn’t have much of a choice. It was if Bard sensed his limits.

They spoke little, but shared much; food, water, and medicine, but most importantly, company that was more valuable than Thranduil cared to admit. He wouldn't have lasted long on his own, and his respect for Bard only grew. Living alone in an empty house was one thing; surviving and travelling in the wild by himself was another.

It was on the fifth night that they shared something new: warmth. The area they had stopped in amongst the trees was too open, and so fires were forbidden. They slept back to back that night, covered by their coats, belongings close.

In the cold of the night and surrounded by the noises of wilderness around him, Thranduil found some comfort in Bard's presence. He wasn't afraid, but who wouldn't have felt unsettled in such a setting? This was a different world, one Thranduil knew little about. He had to rely on Bard, whether he liked it or not.

This was why Thranduil had hired Bard, after all.

His eyes closed, Thranduil listened to Bard's breath behind him. It was better than paying attention to the sounds of the forest. He still hadn't gotten used to them; the howling of wolves, the hissing of big cats, or any of the other strange, disturbing noises the wood creatures made.

Apart from birds and small rodents, they hadn't come across any animals.

“Is there any danger here?” Thranduil had asked on the second day. He had thought strange not to see any bigger creatures.

“At night, yes,” Bard had said, his hand closed on the strap of his bag. “Because you're more vulnerable. During the day? No.”

“Why?”

“They can smell me,” Bard had explained, sending Thranduil an unreadable look. “You could say I'm the top of the food chain, here. Don't get used to it. It won't always be that way.”

Thranduil turned on his back, sending the memory to a corner of his mind. He stared at the darkness above him; the trees were so tall he could not see their canopy, no matter how much his eyes were adjusted to the dark.

Beside him, Bard moved in his sleep, murmuring incoherent words Thranduil couldn't catch. He had been quick to understand it was something he would have to get used to over the weeks to come, along with Bard's habit of talking to himself when he thought Thranduil was still asleep, or just forgot he was there.

It was annoying, but Thranduil knew loneliness too well to let his bad temper dictate his words. This was something he couldn't blame Bard for. So, he said nothing of it. 

Thranduil sat, rubbing his eyes. His feet still hurt, but he didn't complain, and instead hoped they would get used to travel soon enough. He reached for the bowl of paste not far from him. Bard made some for Thranduil every night, without a laugh or a mockery.

He had just finished applying it when Bard jerked awake. Thranduil could discern his wide eyes, darting around like a wild animal, and the quick pacing of his heart by the heaving of his chest.

“I'm sorry to tell you you're still stuck in this forest with me,” Thranduil merely said, picking a waterskin and taking a sip. Bard's gaze snapped to him, and it took a few seconds that seemed longer than they were for his body to lose of its tension. There was something frightening about him in those moments; it was as if he could turn and jump at Thranduil's throat would he be given a reason to.

But Thranduil didn't let any of it show on his face.

Bard grunted and lay down again. He sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

“The sun will be up in an hour or two,” Bard murmured when his breathing found a steadier pace. “You should sleep while you can.”

Thranduil hadn't noticed. He shook his head, and Bard didn't insist.

“What's so special about this ring you seek?” Bard asked then. His voice was low, and measured; there was no pressure for Thranduil to answer.

The question had come out of nowhere, it seemed at first. But had it really? Bard had probably wondered this for days now. It was almost surprising he hadn't asked sooner. Maybe it was for the better; Thranduil was getting used to Bard, and it wasn’t as unwelcomed as it might have been a few days before.

Besides, Bard deserved to know.

“It has always belonged in my family,” Thranduil explained. He adjusted a coat over his shoulders, the first he had found under his fingers; Bard's. “It came to me when my mother died. We give it to the one we marry.”

Bard was silent, but Thranduil felt his gaze on his neck.

“It was stolen from my wife,” Thranduil continued. “I've waited long enough to get it back.”

“What happened to her?”

“She died,” Thranduil answered, his fist clenching by his side. He didn't say more; it was enough.

“What about your son?”

Thranduil made a vague gesture of his hand. “He left,” he said, but it hurt more than he let show. “He wanted to see the world.”

Bard nodded. Some time passed before either of them spoke again, though a question of his own burned on Thranduil's tongue. He had earned the right to speak it, now.

There was a tension in the air, as if Bard knew it would come.

“What of your children's mother?” Thranduil asked at last.

“She's gone,” Bard said, and Thranduil found it hard to put words on what he could hear in his voice; a strange mix of melancholy, grief, and guilt that he understood all too well. But there was something else, too: a warning that this was as much as Thranduil would get from him.

As a result, no more words were exchanged until dawn. Instead, the air was filled with quiet understanding, and comfortable silence. It was good, Thranduil thought, that they had something to relate to, even if it had to be something as regretful as this.

Anything that would bring them closer was welcome; Thranduil believed it was better to travel with someone who was not a complete stranger. The trust they had to build was essential. Thranduil had been a bit late to realize it, but he had, even if he would put limits to it.

It was almost scary how, over the past days, Thranduil had had no choice but to trust Bard faster than he had meant to. Because he depended on him, yes, but also because once he got to know Bard, even just a little more, it had been quick and easy to lower the guard, though Thranduil was still always careful.

 

The days that followed brought them further into the forest. Bard refused to go closer to the long road, insisting it was too dangerous. On the eleventh day, Thranduil was led through yet another part of the woods. Never had he thought this place so big.

Amongst the trees, between which there was now more space, were low plants bearing large leaves. From where Thranduil stood, it seemed the area would never end, and a part of him was glad for it; here the ground was soft and dry under his feet.

Bard stopped as well, stretching his arms before he sent a look Thranduil's way. Then, he took off his boots, and with a nod of his head toward Thranduil's, he invited him to do the same.

Once his feet free from their prison of leather, Thranduil let out a quiet sigh of contentment. The grass was abundant, and made it pleasant to walk on. It soothed his skin, and a small smile stretched on his face at the feeling.

“It should be like this for a while,” Bard said. “Enjoy it while you can.”

And off Bard went.

“Oh, and beware the dragons,” Bard added behind his shoulder. There was the hint of a laugh in his voice, the tug of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“What?” was all Thranduil found to answer, raising his eyebrows.

He got no answer, only a chuckle that rang strange but kind to his ears, and he resolved himself to following Bard's steps.

When sunset came, Thranduil was quick to understand what Bard had meant.

First, he saw the lights; the borders of the leaves took on a blue, fluorescent tone, lighting their path and illuminating their faces the darker the evening got, and the light produced this way was lifted to the canopy of the trees in beautiful, small orbs. It was all ethereal, and Thranduil could have believed he was in another world if his legs weren't so sore.

Bard's pace had slowed, and he now walked by Thranduil's right side. Thranduil turned his head, and watched the Shapeshifter's face. He was surprised that Bard had decided to trust him enough to let Thranduil stay in his blind spot.

“I love this place,” Bard said quietly. “It's like no other.”

Thranduil meant to answer, but something small didn't give him the chance; it bumped into his chest, and Thranduil's eyes widened at what he saw: a small, winged lizard had dig its claws into his clothes, and curiously peered up at him.

It was dark purple, and no bigger than Thranduil's hand. Just like the plants around them, its spine shone, though its light was pure white. Thranduil had never seen anything like this.

“What is—”

“Dwarf dragons,” Bard explained, not even bothering to turn his head. “They're friendlier than they look.”

As he said so, two more dragons landed on Thranduil; one on his shoulder, the other against his hip. They made little squeaks as others came out from under the leaves, trying to reach this human they seemed to be interested in seeing up close.

“And quite curious of strangers, yes,” Bard said. Once again there was a laugh in his voice, and when at last Thranduil turned to look at him, there was a faint light in his eyes. There was no doubt he was highly amused by this whole ordeal.

“Because you're not a stranger?” Thranduil replied slowly. He didn't know what to do of his hands, nor any part of his body, really.

“No,” Bard said. “I come here once in a while, when I want some peace away from people. The ground is a better mattress than any street.”

Somehow Thranduil didn't doubt Bard's words. He could feel it under his feet; tonight he would sleep better than he had in days.

The dragons, as Bard called them, flew by their sides as they progressed further through the forest. With their feet getting heavier, Thranduil knew it wouldn't be long before Bard would announce it was time to rest for the night. At least even he wouldn't be able to go on for much longer without a few hours of sleep.

Eventually, the dragons let go of Thranduil; where there had been four of them, there was now only one. The first that had come to him, with its purple scales and its grey eyes, was smaller than the others, and didn't seem eager to leave Thranduil be. Thranduil rolled his eyes, but didn't try to shake it off. It didn't weigh much, and he was curious about it.

The little beast was in many ways similar to normal dragons—except for the size. Thranduil hadn't seen many dragons in his life; he could count them on the fingers of one hand. And, as a child, he had held a fascination for them that had faded over time. Seeing such a small specimen from so close did nothing but bring back sweet memories of a kind childhood, and he couldn't help but admire it.

Thranduil was so mesmerized that he barely registered Bard stopping between the roots of a large tree. They formed a protection from the wind, and like he had on the first night they had spent in the forest, Thranduil had the feeling someone had been there before.

Then, suddenly, it made sense: Bard knew these spots because he was the one who found refuge there. Thranduil couldn't believe he hadn't understood such an obvious thing sooner.

Thranduil watched as Bard settled down before he did the same. The dragon still clung to his chest, like a lost child finding comfort in a stranger worrying about them.

“Bard?” Thranduil said, and pointed to the small beast when Bard sent him an interrogative look.

“You can take him off, he won't bite,” Bard said, laying down on the grass and crossing his arms behind his head. “Probably.”

Thranduil glared, but tried nonetheless. The dragon offered little resistance; it let himself be taken away, and flew off at once.

Then Thranduil got food out of the bags. They ate some of the fruits they had picked on the way, as well as dried meat, all of this in silence, as dinner was often shared.

Though his body was sore, Thranduil didn't feel tired; and so he let his eyes linger on the night, mesmerized by its beauty, for a while longer. He listened to the sounds of the forest, which here weren't as threatening as they had been elsewhere. Amongst them was Bard's slow and steady breath; he had already fallen asleep, in this place Thranduil was certain he felt safe.

It was only when Thranduil lay down as well, ready for sleep, that he saw the hole in the branches above them; from where he was, gazing up, he could see the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if you liked this chapter? :D 
> 
> Oh and I wrote a story for the Hobbit Big Bang! It's one of the reasons this chapter took so long. It's a Barduil fic of course, set in Middle-earth! [Check it out if you're interested](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6882721), I put a lot of love into it! :)


	5. The Lowlands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't planning on making the dwarf dragons come back but you were so many to tell me you loved them so... take them as an apology for how long it's taken me to update! ;w;

Bard sat by the water's edge, turning his dagger in his hands. He was making a mental list of everything they needed to cross the lowlands, though always he kept an eye on Thranduil. Thranduil, who sat not far from Bard, his feet in the stream and his eyes focused on Bard's second dagger, which he was sharpening, a line of concentration on his forehead.

They had reached the forest's border a day ago now, after another few days of walking amongst the trees. During most of that time, they had been followed by a few dwarf dragons who had been good company until they had made it to the end of their territories. Only one had remained, as though he had taken a liking to Thranduil, but Bard knew the small beast would not follow them through the lowlands. It wasn't a place for such a fragile creature—it was already barely a place for a Man.

The dwarf dragon slept on a rock by Thranduil's side now, sitting still like a statue, or a watchful guardian. Bard had always found how they could sleep in any position they happened to fall asleep in amusing; it reminded him of himself, back in Laketown, where his wife or his children would wake him up and Bard would realize that he was sitting, legs crossed, on the floor where he had played with Tilda, or an inch from his plate after dinner late at night.

Bard closed his eyes, shaking the small smile off his lips; all this was a long time ago.

He looked back to Thranduil then, and down to Thranduil’s feet. Walking without shoes had been good for him, and the leaves Thranduil had found and used as socks had been of great help once they had left the softer area of the forest. They were slowly healing, though still all the walking made it longer and more difficult, but Bard was hopeful that they would not be a problem again once they reached the next town. There, Thranduil would be able to get travelling socks, and things would be a little easier.

“There,” Thranduil said, reclaiming Bard's attention. He handed him his dagger, which Bard took back with a nod of his head, after putting the other aside.

“That's perfect, thank you,” he said as he inspected the blade. Thranduil's work was truly precise, flawless, and mostly unexpected; not a day passed when Bard didn't wonder what other surprises Thranduil had in store for him.

“Of course it is,” Thranduil replied, and scratched the chin of the dragon—who jerked awake and lay big, confused eyes on Thranduil—before filling his waterskin.

“How did you learn?”

Thranduil glanced at him, something strange in his eyes. Bard didn't often try to learn more about Thranduil, but on the two times he had, no answer had been given to him. However, if there was one thing Bard had quickly learned, it was that Thranduil was a complicated man. There was little he shared or said about himself—which was true of Bard, too. Their difference lay in that Bard was too tired to put on a mask like Thranduil did. Bard didn't judge him for it; all Men hid their secrets and bore their burdens.

As a consequence Bard would never force a subject onto Thranduil, if he didn't want to share it, and he knew Thranduil reciprocated; he had once asked Bard about past events, but Bard hadn’t wished to speak of such a matter, and Thranduil had seemed to understand.

Bard had already resigned himself to not getting an answer, and went back to his thoughts on planning and stock, when Thranduil's voice rose again.

“I had a teacher, a long time ago.”

Bard looked up. He didn't say a word, but was silent as he concentrated his attention on Thranduil. 

“As a child,” Thranduil continued, “I learned sword fighting, and my teacher thought important to show me how to take care of my blades. I thought so, too.” Thranduil put the filled waterskin aside, and his hand found the dragon's scales again. The dragon searched for the touch, his tail sliding between Thranduil's fingers. “Before you ask—I insisted my son took my sword with him.”

Bard inspected his face, but Thranduil's expression was blank, as it often was. “You can borrow my daggers, if needed,” Bard said.

Thranduil snorted—or something that resembled it. “Of course. That shall be helpful.”

Bard rolled his eyes. “They have saved my life many times.”

There was no answer from Thranduil; he simply stared for a few seconds that seemed much longer than they were, before getting his feet out of the water and proceeding to dry them. They didn’t speak afterwards, but as the night drew near they grew closer, for the air was cold where the trees were rarer, and that let the wind howl and bite.

Once their stomachs were filled with fish Bard had caught and cooked on the fire Thranduil had made, they lay in silence, eyes fixed on the stars above them through the canopy of the trees, close to the remains of the fire.

Tomorrow they would leave the forest, and enter the lowlands where food was rare and water even more so; where days were warmer and nights colder; where hunters became prey and discretion was hard to master.

Crossing the lowlands wouldn't be impossible—Bard had made the journey before, more than once—but it wouldn't be easy, either. They would have to be even more careful than they had been so far.

Bard had told this to Thranduil, and he presumed it was why, when he woke the next morning, Thranduil didn't seem to have slept much. He was applying what was left of the paste before putting on his boots, getting everything ready, making sure the waterskins were filled one last time—and in doing so, leaving little for Bard to do.

Bard bowed his head in silent thanks, and Thranduil only nodded.

They ate a quick breakfast made of the fruits they had picked in the forest, keeping everything that would last longer for the journey, and drank right from the stream under the dragon's curious eyes.

Bard grew more impressed with Thranduil with every day spent by his side. He had expected Thranduil to be a pain most of the time; always complaining that the journey was harder than he had thought it'd be, but there had been none of that. He _was_ a pain, just not in that way.

But the more Bard had thought about it, the more it had become clear: Thranduil was proud, and didn't see himself for less than he was. As a result, he was too proud to admit his weaknesses by making a fuss about how the food wasn't great, the ground uncomfortable, or how his feet hurt from walking so much. 

It wasn't easy to go from a comfortable life of comfort without fear of cold or hunger to travelling a whole land by foot and sleeping in the dirt under the stars. It took determination, and courage; Bard admired Thranduil for that.

And it seemed that there was more to Thranduil than met the eye, but this Bard had started to guess earlier on; Lords didn't hold their body so well, didn't walk with the fluidity of someone who knew how to make the best of their movements. Thranduil hadn't lied when he had said he could defend himself, and their conversation from the day before only confirmed it. Bard was certain of this, though he wondered if Thranduil's skills were as good as he might believe.

Bard ran a hand over his face, and sighed; he hoped he would not have to find out. Then he looked in the direction of the lowlands, and stood at last. 

“Are we ready?” Thranduil asked.

“Yes, let's go.”

The lowlands weren't far from where they had set camp; merely an half hour's walk. The more they progressed, the more the ground lost its green, and the trees disappeared, only to be replaced with beige sand, and the air grew warmer under the sun.

Thranduil, who had been walking a few feet ahead of Bard, came to an halt when the dragon who had been following him for the past week refused to go any further. Bard watched as Thranduil picked him up and held him like a small cat. He almost looked sad at the prospect of saying goodbye—but maybe it wouldn't be one, for if everything went well they would come back the same way.

“How long?” Thranduil said.

Bard looked up to the sky; it couldn't be more blue, and the sun seemed closer to them than it really was. Already he could feel sweat forming on his skin. 

“With this heat—six, or seven days. I doubt we'll make it in five.”

Thranduil's eyes shifted to the vast expanse of the lowlands, and Bard's gaze followed it. He could not see the end of it; sand stretched into the distance, and Bard took a deep breath. He had crossed it before, but it had never been a good experience. He remembered the thirst when he had not managed to find one of the moving oasis, and the claws of the beasts that had tried to make their dinner out of him.

He glanced back to Thranduil, whose eyes were still fixed on the horizon.

“Thranduil,” Bard said, and Thranduil's gaze snapped back to him. “We should go.”

Thranduil looked down to the dragon in his arms, and put him on the ground with a last scratch to his chin. The small beast didn't move when Thranduil took a step back, and simply watched as he walked away. But, it made a small noise of what Bard sensed was distress, and Bard caught Thranduil's shoulders stiffening.

With a last look to the dragon Bard joined Thranduil. He put a hand on his shoulder, merely a fleeting touch, before walking on.

 

The lowlands were nothing but sand and the whipping of the wind under the burning sun.

As they progressed through the hills, Bard took off his upper clothes until only his tunic remained, and Thranduil did the same with his cloak. When thirst kicked in and drops of sweat started rolling on his skin, Bard already wished for the lake, and when night came at last, it was gladly that they sat on the cooling sand to share food and water. They were careful not to drink it too fast, Bard making sure they had enough of it until they saw the end of this part of the journey—or found an oasis.

The following four days were much the same; like hell, they went further in the more time passed. Bard's hair stuck to his head; he felt as if he hadn't bathed in years—and that was something—but it was nothing compared to the weight of the heat on them.

They protected their heads with scarves during the day, stayed close and huddled in their clothes at night. Bard could see how tired Thranduil was, though he still kept his head high. He was strong, no matter how new and hard it was for him. It was for Bard, too, but at least he had always known what he was stepping into.

But they were lucky; no harm had come to them, and the crossing of the lowlands was peaceful. Bard could only hope it would keep on being that way, but didn’t raise his hopes too high.

The conversations they had through the days were short and many hours of silence separated them, but always they were interesting; in Thranduil, Bard found someone who could understand him, and who he could understand, no matter how different they were. Grief and loss were not exclusive to a harder lifestyle, after all. And so, as the days had gone by since they had first mentioned their loss back in the forest, Bard had grown curious of Thranduil, of his life and of his experience. But he never asked; he was content with what Thranduil was willing to share with him.

They mostly talked of their children, for even if the subject held some pain, such memories were also comforting, and listening to Thranduil's made time roll by faster. Bard had never seen a genuine, pure smile graze Thranduil's lips before. At least, none like the ones he couldn't hold back when he told stories about his son.

Bard guessed it had to be the same, from Thranduil's point of view. There was no better remedy to exhaustion than talking about his children, and always he couldn't help the small smiles that tugged at the corner of his mouth. It had been years, since he had last spoken of them to someone.

The lowlands were unforgiving, but Bard found himself thankful for the heat and heavy silence, which made them talk, when back in the forest they had felt little need to.

“Legolas always loved bows,” Thranduil was saying on the third day. “That never changed.”

“Why give him your sword, then?”

“A bow won't save him from up-close,” Thranduil said, tilting his head slightly to the side.

“You're right, of course,” Bard said absently. Perhaps Thranduil had also wanted his child to keep something of him. “I miss archery, but—”

“Practice, then, and get your eye used to it.”

“I didn’t really have the occasion to,” Bard replied. “But if I ever get that house of yours, I will.”

He risked a glance to Thranduil, but he wasn’t looking in his direction. Instead his eyes lingered around them, and a frown marked his forehead. 

“I've always had this feeling everyone was looking at me, whenever I went into town,” Thranduil said, out of the blue. “But there's no one here. So why is that exactly how I'm feeling right now?”

“There are more creatures living in the lowlands than it seems,” Bard explained, stopping to get rid of his boots now that the sand cooled with the slow coming of the night. “Many live underground, either waiting to hunt us, or hiding from those who go up.”

“That's why you keep looking at the ground.”

Bard nodded. “My first experience here wasn't a nice one. I'd rather not let it happen ag—”

“Bard,” Thranduil said, cutting him off. “Look.”

Bard looked in the direction Thranduil indicated him, and stood, boots in hand. 

Bard had not even dared hoping for it, yet here it was; an oasis, which made a brief smile of relief stretched on Bard’s face. It meant he would have to be all the more careful, but it was still a most welcomed apparition. Their waterskins were almost empty, and it would make the end of the crossing easier, if they faced no trouble.

They reached the oasis—merely a patch of green, and a small water point—before nightfall, and there they relaxed under the few trees and refreshed their feet and faces with the water.

They lay on their backs with their belongings at hand's reach, gazing up at the stars. The night wasn't as cold as the others, but it was noisier, and because of it Bard was more on edge than he let show; as expected, creatures had to be nearby, and he doubted he would find sleep until the noise stopped.

“How far have we gone?” Thranduil asked.

“We should see the end of this place soon,” Bard answered in a murmur. “Just one more night after this one, and we'll reach the lake.”

“Thank gods,” Thranduil muttered, so low Bard might not have heard it if he hadn't been paying attention. “What's that noise?”

“Remember when you said you felt something was watching us?” Bard said. “If they start to sound like whimpers, get up and run.”

“That's reassuring.”

“That's reality,” Bard replied. “Sleep, I'll keep an eye out.”

Not long after, Thranduil's breathing found the slow, steady pace of one who has fallen asleep. Bard sat, let his gaze linger all around them. The noises and cackling had disappeared, and there was nothing his eye could make out.

Perhaps they would be safe one more night, but Bard preferred not to grant themselves too much hope; luck wouldn’t always be on their side.

 

When Bard woke the next morning, the first thing he saw was the blue of the early morning sky. He blinked, once, twice, until his eye adjusted to the light that fell over him. He stirred, and took a few calculated breaths before he sat. This night had been a calm one; no dreams had agitated his sleep, and, thankfully, nothing had woken him.

By his side, Thranduil still slept. There was something kinder to his face when it was free from the mask of seriousness and coldness it often bore. Bard knew Thranduil to have a softer heart than he let show; by going on this quest with him, he had been given the chance to notice it. 

Bard’s hand found the ring hanging around his own neck, under the roughness of his tunic.

He didn't believe, not for an instant, that the only reason Thranduil wanted his ring back was simply because it was a family heirloom. One didn't go on such a dangerous journey for something so insignificant.

The ring had to mean much more to Thranduil than he’d let on; a symbolic, emotional value, Bard was certain.

There was a part of him that dreaded the day they would retrieve the ring—should they even make it to the stash in the first place—for he doubted it would bring Thranduil any kind of comfort. It was like vengeance; a promise of peace that disappeared like smoke between one's fingers once finally caught. But who was he to tell Thranduil this? He wouldn't listen. And selfishly, Bard couldn't let go of the chance he was being given by trying to change Thranduil's mind.

Bard woke Thranduil gently, by shaking his shoulder. His eyes didn't leave their surroundings; it was as quiet as it should be, but he had been quick to notice the paw prints in the sand, close to the water of the oasis. They hadn't been alone.

“Let's fill the waterskins and get going,” Bard said, standing up.

Thranduil seemed to hear the edge in his voice, and he sat at once, already getting rid of his cloak as he lay piercing blue eyes on him. Bard often thought Thranduil could read him as easily as an open book. “You look tense.”

“That's because I am,” Bard replied. “Let's go.”

They were back on the road before the next hour was over, and walking at a faster pace. Bard sometimes looked back to the oasis; a small haven of peace in the middle of the lowlands. Thranduil walked a few feet further ahead, his hair barely moving on his back.

Neither spoke until noon, when Thranduil came to a stop at the top of a hill. He drank some sips from his waterskin, and Bard did the same. Then, Bard pointed to the horizon.

“Can you see it?”

Thranduil squinted, stopping the sun with his hand. “Mountains.”

Bard nodded. “We'll be at the lake before noon tomorrow.”

“Good. I've had my fair share of sand for a while.”

Quiet determination tainted Thranduil’s features, and upon seeing this it hit Bard; he had to be right. All this couldn’t be just about a family heirloom. This was about control, whether Thranduil realised it or not. From what Bard had learned and understood about Thranduil, he had lost the tight grip on his life a long time ago. No matter how, he had lost his wife too early; by the way he told stories of his son, it had been a long time since it had been more than just the two of them. And Thranduil had lost his son, too, though in a different way. There was a bitterness in his voice that spoke of regrets and guilt, which Bard couldn’t help but notice even though Thranduil was rather good at his attempts to hide it.

“Can you see the future?” Bard asked, then.

“I'm sorry?”

“The future,” Bard said. “Can you see it?”

“No,” Thranduil said, turning to face him. “I’m not that kind of Soothsayer.”

“Do you ever wish you could?”

Thranduil seemed to have already thought of this, for he was quick to answer, “No. The past is enough.”

Bard wanted to ask more, but thought better of it; he had asked enough. Instead, he gestured forward.

“Why do you ask?” Thranduil said as he followed Bard down the hill.

“Curiosity,” Bard said. “It is a burden, but it can be useful.”

“You speak as if you know what you are talking about,” Thranduil said, frowning.

“I do.”

Thranduil didn’t ask any further, and strangely, Bard found himself wishing he had.

He lead Thranduil onwards, guiding him thanks to sun, to which Bard kept glancing when he wasn't looking down to the sand, making sure he was taking exactly the right way that would lead them quickest to the borders of the lake. A part of him dreaded it; from there he would be able to see the towers of Lake-town. He didn’t know how he would feel upon seeing it again.

Feeling nostalgia creeping its way through his mind, Bard focused his attention on his task. He sent glances to Thranduil now and then, realizing how he had started to know his face well (in the same way he was progressively learning how Thranduil worked); after almost a month in his company, at every hour of the day and the night, it was hard not to.

“I can also tell if someone is special,” Thranduil said later on, his breathing heavier from the weight of the sun on them. “I could tell you were, from the moment I met your eyes.”

Bard hummed pensively, adjusting the scarves on his head. “Could you tell I’m a Shapeshifter, or just special?”

“Special.”

It could be useful; if Thranduil could tell who was different than the common population, and who was not, they would know who to avoid in case they had a power similar to Thranduil's. Thranduil, who seemed to understand what was going through Bard's mind, for he inclined his head in silent agreement.

“How does it feel?” Thranduil said an hour later, after he had taken a sip of water and wiped the sweat off his forehead. Bard didn't have to ask what Thranduil was referring to; information for information had become a sort of agreement between them.

“Terrible,” Bard said. “But once I've turned, I dare say I rather like it.”

“Do you really?”

“Yes,” Bard replied. “It makes going through winter easier, though lonelier.”

“It's not as if you have many friends in the first place,” Thranduil said as-matter-of-factly, getting on the move again.

Bard followed him, shaking his head. “You're right—at least in the forest I have dragons.”

To this Thranduil let out a short laugh. “I suppose that's always something.”

“Don't mock me, I saw how you liked that little one.”

Thranduil made a dismissive wave of his hand, and walked faster.

 

They stopped for the night, sitting in the sand and drinking more than they had allowed themselves in days, now that they had the certainty they wouldn't spend another night here.

Thranduil pressed his back against Bard's, and soon enough it was just a little warmer. He listened to Thranduil's breathing, the only thing along with his own and the wind to break the silence of the lowlands, until it grew so low Bard could not hear it anymore.

And then, nothing.

Bard fell asleep to silence, and woke up to whimpers.

At once Bard's mind started racing, though it didn't show in the way he sat up; slowly, and carefully.

“Thranduil.” Bard shook him, with both hands. “Get up!”

“Bard?”

“Get up!”

Bard's tone sent Thranduil into action so fast one could have thought he hadn't been sleeping at all.

Both of them were up in a second, and Bard’s blood ran cold as his eyes met two dozen pairs of small lights staring right at them. Only, there wasn’t any fire. Only the light of the moon allowed them to see enough; Bard was glad for it. Though he could manage in the dark, Thranduil wouldn’t see a thing without the light.

He felt something searching for his belt, and then one of his daggers was being taken out of its sheath. Bard glanced at Thranduil, seeing him grip the hilt of the dagger, holding himself ready for a fight.

“Didn't you say I could borrow them?”

Bard didn’t have time to reply—nor the time to take his other dagger—before the creatures got moving.

Bard knew what they were; desert basilisks. Reptiles the size of dogs, walking on two legs. They were the colour of the sand under which they hid waiting for prey, when they weren’t running around the lowlands in search of food. Bard had met them before, and had the scars on his leg to remind him of it.

Their best chance at survival was to run, so they wouldn’t be surrounded.

He killed the first one with a lucky strike to the heart. He could defend himself, but Bard wasn’t particularly good at close range defense, despite the reputation he had built for himself. He had always been better with a bow. Deadly, even, just as he was in his other form.

He watched as Thranduil swirled and killed, his eyes impossibly cold, and impossibly calm.

For a moment, Bard wondered who was protecting who.

“Thranduil!” Bard called, and as Thranduil turned towards him he threw the dagger at him, which Thranduil caught as if it was nothing but a ball. “Get back.”

Thranduil’s eyes widened for a fraction of second, before he took a few steps backwards, and dug one of the dagger into the neck of the next creature that tried to get to him. Blood spilled onto his arm, tainting it in red and making it look like silver under the moonlight.

They were too many; Bard knew what he had to do. His heart beat fast, and his hands trembled. He had never liked it—at least, not this part of it.

Bard took a deep breath, and closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I put it in my Google Docs notes: 'dun dun duuun!'  
> Listen... I'm actually a five-year-old.  
> (and I've never written action-y things before so bear with me? ;v;)
> 
> Your feedback on the third chapter really cheered me up, thank you so much!! <3 Let me know if you've enjoyed this one as well?  
> :D (despite how long it took me to update--gosh I'm so sorry)
> 
> Many thanks to the amazing [Iza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13) for the editing, as always <33


	6. Rivendell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writer's block has been very hard on me for about two months, I'm sorry it took so long (again.) Thank you for your patience, I hope you'll enjoy this chapter! :)
> 
> Thank you to [Iza](http://piyo-13.tumblr.com) for the editing, as always <3 (and I was serious, you'll get that chocolate cake) **update February 11th, 2016:** AND SHE ALSO MADE THE GORGEOUS ART FEATURED IN THIS CHAPTER!!  <33

Thranduil only realized what was happening when he heard the whimpers—muffled cries of pain, along with the cracking of bones. It sent shivers running down his spine, and raised goosebumps on his skin. It wasn't scary, no; it was painful to hear, and almost made him glad for not being able to see. 

But Thranduil turned around, when the pained noises stopped and were replaced with a louder breathing, and even the beasts turned their attention away from him. 

Thranduil had spent some time wondering what form Bard took when he turned; but he hadn’t expected this. He had heard many stories about Shapeshifters, but never seen one in their animal form before, and nothing would have prepared him for this; the beast—Bard, it was Bard—was tall as a horse, and Thranduil was glad he was an ally and not a threat to him.

Bard was a creature like Thranduil had never seen before. At least, not outside of books. He was of a race Thranduil remembered were called the large felines, but was far from the descriptions in paintings and tales; his fur was darker, his mane shorter and messier. He was as thin as a stray cat, and his white, blind eye gleamed under the moonlight.

He wasn’t a lion; he was the shadow of one. 

For a moment the low-lands had fallen into silence again, and it was when Bard made his first step, that the basilisks got into moving again. As trained as Thranduil had once been, he still lacked experience in fighting against beasts smaller than he was; one of them, before Thranduil thrust his blade into its side, was fast enough to surprise him, and dig its claws into Thranduil’s flesh. 

“We cannot stay here!” Thranduil called over the animals’ cries, pushing another one away with a kick of his foot. He cursed at the blood staining his tunic. 

But Bard was already making his way to him, and Bard, after catching one of the beasts by the throat and throwing it away like a mere doll, came to kneel before Thranduil. 

Thranduil didn’t think twice before climbing onto his back. He didn't even look back for the belongings and provisions they had to leave behind. The mane under his fingers was rugged and he could feel the irregular form of the skin under him; scars he had never seen until now, all scattered upon Bard’s body.

But Thranduil didn’t have the time to let his attention linger, for Bard didn’t wait any longer to run. Thranduil hung on, not certain he was processing what had just happened, what was happening. He looked forward, trying to concentrate on holding on, and soon forgot the pain in his arm. 

  


[ ](http://piyo13sdoodles.tumblr.com/post/157079480681/its-fandom-fic-rec-days-and-in-honor-of-that)  


  


And then it was almost dawn, and the Lake was in sight, and Bard stopped running, his breathing harsh. Thranduil could feel Bard’s legs shaking under him, and so he jumped off, watching Bard with wide eyes as the shy sunrays of morning revealed him under a different light.

The first thing Thranduil noticed was that Bard hadn’t been hurt, though he looked exhausted. The second was the scars he had seen under his fingers. Quickly he looked to Bard’s face instead. Their eyes met, and Thranduil saw they were exactly the same. 

Then Bard turned his back on him, and slowly he took back his original form. Thranduil didn't look. The noises hurt to hear, but this time there were no quiet groans and whimpers; merely sighs of what seemed to be relief tainted with pain.

Bard didn’t look at him as he asked if Thranduil was alright, but he accepted Thranduil’s help to make him stand after Thranduil had assured him that he was. 

Then he nodded towards the water, and they progressed slowly until they reached the lake, not exchanging a word, nor a look, nor anything but their breaths.

Thranduil joined him near the water with measured steps. Next to each other they drank from the lake, too tired to rejoice in their success—though survival would have been a better word.

“I need some rest,” Bard was the first to break the silence. “But not here.”

“You should sleep, at least for a few hours.”

“Not here,” Bard repeated. “Further ahead, but not here.”

Thranduil followed Bard’s gaze; it fell on a town, further on along the border of the lake. It wasn't hard, to add one and one.

But there could be another reason; if they could see people from here once the sun was high enough, people would see them, too.

“Fine,” Thranduil said. “But I'm not carrying you.”

Bard snorted. “I wouldn't have wanted you to, nor expected you to.”

It was a bit later, when Thranduil felt his body calm down, and his muscles became sore from the fight and the riding, that Thranduil remembered it; the pain, rushing through his flesh. He winced as he looked down to his arm. There were three cuts, from which blood spilled slowly. 

“Bard?”

At last Bard’s eyes snapped to him, and they widened at what he hadn’t been able to see from where he’d been. “You’re bleeding,” Bard said, and already he was searching in the satchels hanging from his belt. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“I was about to,” Thranduil replied, through gritted teeth. He couldn't remember the last time he had been hurt like this, if he ever had been, and it wasn't a feeling he was glad to discover. 

Thranduil watched carefully as Bard fumbled with plants and water, shaking his head. His exhaustion was almost sad to see, but he still worked fast and well to clean Thranduil's wound. 

“You'll survive,” Bard said as he applied the paste, and bandaged Thranduil's arm. “Probably. Just tell me if anything worries you.”

“Thank you,” Thranduil said, before looking away. 

Bard held back a laugh. “I thought you'd hate me for getting you hurt.”

“You didn't,” Thranduil replied, raising an eyebrow at him. “I hired you to guide me, to protect me from what I cannot face alone; which you did. It was never about protecting me from scratches.”

Thranduil held Bard's gaze, until the Shapeshifter sighed and gave a short, dismissive wave of his hand. 

They lingered by the lake until they had found food—algae and fish that Bard left under the sun to dry—and regained enough strength to continue their journey. Thranduil's hand found the purse hanging on his belt; at least they would be able to buy new waterskins, and anything else they might need, once they reached town. 

Then they walked by the water, glad not to have to worry about running out of it, talking much less than they had through the lowlands, but staying close; Thranduil strayed not far from Bard, keeping an eye on him.

Bard didn’t say so, but Thranduil knew it was taking them longer to get to the town than Bard had planned. Bard was exhausted by turning, just like he had explained it back in Bree. He was slower to walk, less focused, and Thranduil came to worry he would collapse before they would find a place to stay for a few days. 

It was strange, to worry for Bard; he had not really expected he ever would, but after every day and night of a little more than month in his only company, Thranduil found he couldn't avoid it. 

But Bard was strong, and arriving to Rivendell after a night during which both of them barely slept seemed to fill him with renewed energy, though he kept his head low. 

Rivendell was a quiet town, with a particularly peaceful reputation. It was no exception to the world's rules, though, and even here Bard could not be discovered; but at least he would not be denied shelter, not with Thranduil by his side. They looked for a place to stay first; a room owned above an old man's shop, who was glad to finally have some visitors whose ‘money would allow him to buy extra treats for his grandchildren’, he told them.

The room had two small beds, and was clean enough; it was the best they could afford, given their situation. 

“If you don't mind,” Bard said, gesturing to one of the beds.

“Of course,” Thranduil said. “I'll have a look around town.”

Bard nodded before collapsing on the bed, promptly falling asleep on the spot, and leaving Thranduil to silence. He was almost surprised Bard hadn't told him to be careful, but perhaps it wasn't much of a surprise; from what he had seen, Rivendell was indeed peaceful, and after the night they had escaped three days earlier, Bard was unlikely to doubt of Thranduil's ability to defend himself anymore. Which, really, was a good thing: he had grown tired of passing for an helpless man. 

Thranduil wandered about town for most of the day, buying new waterskins and what little he needed to make the rest of the journey easier. He bought some decent food as well, deciding they both deserved it tonight, and made mental note of the places and shops to avoid; there were many other gifted people around town, and as it was impossible to tell whether or not they were Soothsayers, it was better to keep low profile around them all. 

It was only then that he looked upon the town with a different eye, for now that he was alone—and that did feel strange—there was little Thranduil had to worry about. Rivendell was not only a peaceful town; it was also a place where the poor were well taken care of, and one didn't have to be wary of hungry children trying to steal from one’s pockets.

Rivendell was also beautiful, in many ways; the houses were white, the shops welcoming and the people cheerful. It didn't mean there was no danger for people like Bard, but it was still a nice place to visit and enjoy. 

He came back to the room with his arms full of supplies, only to find Bard still fast asleep, mind and body surely too tired to even disturb his rest with dreams. 

Thranduil hadn't spoken of the experience of seeing a Shapeshifter turn. It had been impressive, even a little scary, but Bard wouldn't want him to make a fuss out of it, and this Thranduil understood. So he’d said nothing, and Bard had seemed content in the silent understanding of what Thranduil had witnessed. 

He set the food—fresh bread and cheese—on the table, and sat on the other bed. He looked at Bard, and played absently with a lock of his own hair, entangling the lock between his fingers. 

The room was quiet, except from the chatter from the street, and it felt—surreal, perhaps. It had been a few weeks, now, since Thranduil had left his home, but when one spends all day and night in the wild, with no one but one’s guide, it feels like much longer. To be in a room, safe from the cold of the night and its creatures—it was quite something, and Thranduil could now look upon his quest with a rested mind. 

In no way did he regret it, but he realized what his whole quest meant better than he had before and during the first days of the journey; he had grown to like Bard, who did all this for his children, but still cared for and treated him well. And, after the events of that night in the lowlands, it was harder not see clearly what he had got himself into.

He looked down to his bandaged arm; merely a scratch, yet it could have been so much worse. Perhaps the next time, if there was one—and there might be—it would be Bard's turn, and such a thought didn't only upset him because the chances to get his ring back would be lost. Thranduil shook his head; it was useless to dwell on this, now that they were alright. 

Bard woke only when the sun started to set, sending the room into the shadows until the moon rose enough to bathe it in its light. Thranduil was lighting a lamp, when he noticed Bard sitting up from the corner of his eye, and heard him groan. 

“You slept long and well,” Thranduil stated, not turning his head towards Bard as he unpacked the bread and cheese. 

“Aye,” Bard said. “And I fear I'm not done just yet.”

“How long will you need?” Thranduil asked.

“Two days, though three would be better if you'd allow it,” Bard replied carefully, and this time Thranduil faced him. 

“If that is what you need,” Thranduil said, and made a vague gesture of his hand. Then he brought Bard the food, settling it on his knees atop a cloth. “I saw enough to know it wouldn't be wise to make you travel unrested—we'll stay here for as long as necessary.”

Bard let out a sigh. “Thank you,” he said, just as he seemed to notice the new bags and products bought by Thranduil. “How was town?”

“Quiet,” Thranduil said. “I looked for the places to avoid, and found some of what we lost.” He didn’t mention the short, though numerous, headaches that had resulted from touching objects and door knobs all day. Instead he went back to the table, served himself a portion of food as well, before returning to the bed—he would have eaten on the table, if there hadn't been but one old, unsafe-looking chair. 

“Good,” Bard said. “How is your arm?”

“Well enough.” Thranduil quirked an eyebrow at him. “It's been three days. You can stop asking.”

Bard rolled his eyes. “You're never too careful. Let me see it tomorrow, and I'll stop bothering you.”

“Fine,” Thranduil said. “I’ll hold you to your word.”

Thranduil ate as well, and few words were exchanged afterwards, for Bard was quick to go back to sleep, and Thranduil felt more tired than he had thought he was, now that it was dark. He lay on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, and despite how long the day had been, sleep did not find him quite yet. 

He shifted under the sheets, and his eyes found Bard's face, illuminated by the moonlight; he seemed at peace, his breathing steady and the lines of his face relaxed. There was something comforting in Bard's calm; as though if Bard could be peaceful, then the world could be, too.

Thranduil closed his eyes.

The next days went much faster than Thranduil had expected. He spent half the day outside, the other in Bard's company. He could see Bard hated staying inside most of the time, but he needed all the rest he could get before going back on the road. 

In the morning and evening Thranduil trained with Bard's daggers, getting used to their weight and how he could move with them, finding an advantage in the size of the room, for it made it more challenging. 

Often he would turn to find Bard awake and watching him, and he would say nothing, but wouldn't look away, either. 

“Do you often do that?” Thranduil asked on the third day.

“Do what?”

“Spy on people.”

“We're sharing this room,” Bard answered, brows furrowed. 

“You know what I mean.”

And Thranduil left the room before Bard could answer, taking the soap he’d bought, and one of the towels the owner of the room had put at their disposition. He could never stand the room for too long, anyway. 

He was walking down the stairs when he heard the door open and close behind him, and then Bard's voice.

“Where are you going?”

“Taking a walk,” Thranduil replied. “And getting cleaned up.”

“Care if I join you?”

“As if I didn't have to see your face enough,” Thranduil said under his breath, though it held no heat. 

Behind him Bard let out a short laugh, and after greeting the owner briefly, followed suit as Thranduil went out the door. 

Bard was discreet as they walked through town to the shores of the lake.

However, it didn’t stop him from asking questions.

“You’ve proved you fight well,” Bard said as they roamed the town’s main street. “Why didn’t you bring a weapon with you in the first place?”

“I knew I’d bring attention to myself by getting in contact with you,” Thranduil replied, digging into his pocket to take out a coin and roll it between his fingers, “and as I’ve given my only weapon to my son, it meant I had to buy one.” He gestured for Bard to follow him through a narrow street. “I’ve lived in that village for years, and never had anything to fear. To most people, I have no reason to buy a new weapon. I knew you’d protect me, and carry yours, so I thought it would be safer not to create any more rumors before my departure.”

“Any more?”

“Well, yes.” Thranduil glanced at Bard. “There have always been many about me, and rumors travel fast in that village. That I made contact with a Shapeshifter did enough to fan the flames as it is.”

Bard slowly nodded. “Speaking of rumors; you said you checked the town, but—”

“The only place you should avoid is a tavern in a far corner of the town, called some obscure name, but I figured I didn’t need to tell you not to go there.”

Bard muttered something that Thranduil couldn’t decipher. There was something sad about this town; it was beautiful and full of joy, and yet it hadn’t escaped centuries of hate and fear.

Once they’d reached the shore, Bard spoke no more; instead he glanced every now and then to the small forms of houses and fishing boats on the horizon, and Thranduil prefered not to disturb whatever memories Bard might have been reminiscing over, given the look in his eyes when he looked back ahead. 

They walked alongside the lake, until they reached the border of the forest, which offered hiding spots from prying eyes. 

They could have bathed in the city’s public baths, of course; but though they had money for long lasting food and clothes, it was better not to spend it on things nature could provide them. One never knew what else they might need it for. 

Thranduil watched as Bard tossed off his upper clothes. He hung them on a branch, unaware of Thranduil’s eyes trailing over old wounds, and didn’t bother to tie his hair up. In Thranduil’s opinion, it was desperately in need of washing.

"How did you get those scars?" Thranduil asked, pointing to the ones around Bard's neck, chest, and arms. 

"Most people wouldn't ask such a question," Bard said, and under Thranduil's gaze he added, "but I guess you're not most people."

"So?"

Bard rolled his eyes. Thranduil could almost hear it: ‘unbelievable.’

"They're from the day I got caught."

"You're careful—I always wondered how that happened."

Bard smiled sadly. "No matter how careful you are to hide, sometimes you don't have a choice." His eyes flickered to his belt and satchels, closer to the water than the rest of his clothes. 

Thranduil knew by now that he often reached out to it and squeezed it, whenever he mentioned his past life, or his children. He felt however, that he wouldn't get any details; this was a story he shouldn't have to ask for. 

"I got that one, too, that day," Bard added, and when Thranduil's gaze snapped back to him Bard was pointing to his blind eye. 

"Oh, so you did use to look better?"

Bard snorted. "Hilarious."

A smirk, and Thranduil quickly looked away, before Bard got rid of his underpants as well.

Thranduil followed soon after. After taking off his own clothes, back turned on Bard, he untied his hair from its strap of leather, before throwing a sponge at Bard over his shoulder, who caught it and at once started to clean himself up. 

That Thranduil was as bare as a baby before him didn't seem to interest him in the slightest.

Bard's nakedness didn't bother Thranduil, either. He had never been sensible to such things, in the way people expected him to, though he didn't feel like completely revealing himself. These were the manners he had been taught. But truth was he had always hated how people, men and women alike, would look at him as a teenager, when he went to the lake with his few friends. 

Thranduil slid into the water, which was as cold as he had expected it to be. He shivered. 

“Freezing, aye,” Bard said, though it almost seemed to be only to himself. 

He looked up to Thranduil, gaze quickly trailing over Thranduil's chest. Had it been anyone else, Thranduil would have wanted to be out of sight, but he didn't move; there was no hunger in Bard's eyes, merely curiosity.

“Soap?” Bard asked.

Thranduil smirked, and he relaxed at once. “Do you really need to ask?”

At that he got closer, and handed Bard the soap he had taken with him. 

“I'm actually surprised you agreed to bathe in my presence,” Bard said, tilting his head slightly to the side as he took it. “What changed your mind?”

"I can't remember the last time I got properly cleaned up," Thranduil said under his breath. He had no good answer to Bard's question, except than it was about time he accepted Bard as what he was: someone Thranduil was stuck with for the next few months. The realization would have forced itself upon him, anyway. It was about time he put his pride on the side; for the duration of this journey, he wasn’t a Lord in his big house, enjoying a private bathroom like he’d always had anymore.

Bard didn’t push the subject, and quickly washed himself as he hummed a tune. Thranduil waited, getting his hair wet until Bard was done.

It was when he meant to face Bard again and ask for the soap, that Thranduil saw them, as well. 

Bard's back was scattered in scars; angry lines from, it seemed, years of whipping. Lashing was humiliating in the first place; Thranduil wasn't surprised Bard had tried to hide them until now. 

Thranduil had known they had been there, of course; he had known since riding Bard's back as they had fled from the lowlands, but he hadn't spoken of it, and this was surely the reason Bard didn't bother to hide anymore.

“I have another question,” Thranduil said, and Bard turned back to him. 

“What is it?” he asked slowly, as though he dreaded what Thranduil might come up with.

“How come your clothes don’t get shredded when you turn?”

“Ah, I wondered when you’d ask something about that,” Bard said. “But I didn’t think it’d be about my clothes.”

Thranduil merely quirked an eyebrow, waiting for Bard’s answer. He held up his hand as well, palm towards the sky, and Bard put the soap in it.

“They used to,” Bard said. “It took me years to get it right, but with enough training, I made them a part of me. It is hard to explain—what?”

Thranduil had frozen, fixating something not far from Bard. “Do not move,” he said.

Bard glanced to where Thranduil was looking, and he cracked a smile. “Oh.”

By the way he instantly relaxed, Thranduil guessed that the creature that was staring at them from a mere few feet away wasn’t dangerous. It was an animal of medium size, with a carapace of bright colours and, in Thranduil’s opinion, a ridiculously long neck. 

“Men have no reason to hunt them, so they’re maybe more friendly than the dwarf dragons we met before the lowlands,” Bard explained. “My children loved to play with them, it’s only not coming closer because we’re near the forest.”

“What are they called?”

“You don’t know?” Bard looked surprised. “There are some near your village. They sometimes help fishermen catch their fish in exchange for a share of the day's catch. They’re heron turtles.”

The heron turtle, as Bard called it, didn’t stay long; it swam away when it seemed to realize they had no food to give, and they took it as a sign to get out of the water and get dry under the sun. 

Bard was the first to go back to the shore, as Thranduil finished washing his hair. Thranduil didn’t pay him any mind, concentrating on his task as his thoughts wandered. Bard had told him once, back in the lowlands, about his youngest daughter’s love for animals; surely this was the reason Bard knew so much about them in the first place. 

Legolas had had an interest in the world’s wildlife as well, but it had been something he had shared more with his mother, and when she had died, Legolas’ passion had seemed to die with her, though Thranduil had caught him showing interest in nature over the years that followed. But their relationship had not been the same, and Thranduil had never taken the time to ask him about it. Perhaps he should have.

Without doubt Legolas and Bard’s daughter—Tilda?—would have gotten along well. 

Thranduil shook his head, and shut his eyes; there was no point in thinking about old, lost times that he couldn’t get back. 

When he opened them again, small fish were swimming around him, and after another shake of his head he joined Bard on the shore. Bard was drowsing where he lay, pants back on, an arm behind his head, the other closed over one of his daggers. He opened an eye as Thranduil sat next to him, squinting under the sunshine.

“Your arm seems to be healing well,” he said. “Good.”

Thranduil didn’t answer, but he glanced at the wound. It was ugly, and Bard had assured him it wouldn’t scar, but he found that he didn’t care.

“You got out just in time, Thran,” Bard said then, nodding to the water.

Thranduil glared at Bard. “What did you call me,” he hissed.

“Apologies,” Bard replied, and Thranduil could tell he didn’t mean it at all. “But look.”

Right where he had stood minutes before was now a small group of heron turtles, lead by a rather large one. Its carapace looked more worn out than the others’, and it was looking right at them, as though waiting for something.

“I thought they weren’t dangerous,” Thranduil said.

“They’re not.” Bard seemed to be repressing a smirk. “But if the first one we saw came back with more, it means it liked you.” 

“I haven’t done anything for it to like me,” Thranduil said, flatly.

“You hadn’t done anything with the dwarf dragon from the forest, either,” Bard replied. “Yet it liked you. Why should there be a reason?”

Thranduil couldn’t think of a reply.

In the end, Bard suggested they stay there until dusk, and Thranduil found no reason to refuse. He watched the heron turtles while Bard rested, and even went back into the water, the creatures coming to nudge him for food, but he still didn’t have any to give them.

And, when he sat back where the earth was dry, Bard came to sit not far from him, gaze fixed on the horizon in silence, like he had done before.

Thranduil watched Bard, and he didn’t know what to feel about what he saw.

Hope did wonders on Bard; since they had left Thranduil’s village, Thranduil had seen it grow, slowly, with every step they had taken. He looked less tired, less grim, less… dangerous. He was a man who had lost hope, and been given it back when he had least expected it, and Thranduil was the man who held this hope between his hands.

He had always meant to give Bard his reward, but he hadn’t cared much about it. He had thought that, should their quest fail, Bard should pay the price, too, even though Thranduil had no use for the house he would have given him. But now? It didn’t sound fair anymore, not after he’d seen Bard struggle with keeping his hopes low, without success, in the end.

Thranduil would give Bard the life he had promised him, and he wasn’t sure why he cared now; perhaps, for once, he wished to do what he knew was right, for someone other than himself.

“I wonder what they’re doing,” Bard said then. 

Thranduil couldn’t tell whether or not Bard was talking to himself like he often did, when he thought Thranduil wasn’t paying attention to him, but he replied all the same, “Me, too.” 

The silence that followed was one of understanding, and Thranduil was content to bathe in it.

During the rest of their time by the lake, Thranduil almost forgot he was on a journey at all. 

On the way back, Thranduil led Bard to a merchant selling many sorts of weapons. They were meant to leave the next morning, and although Thranduil knew Bard didn’t mind him using his daggers, it was better if Bard kept both for himself.

Bard showed him a few that he thought would be effective for close range defense, and though Thranduil raised an eyebrow at Bard's unnecessary help, Thranduil nonetheless agreed with his suggestion. The blades were longer than Bard's, but were of the same weight, and Thranduil was quickly convinced by one of them. He paid for two pieces and their sheaths, and off they went. 

As it was the end of the day, there were more people in the streets, and Bard was more wary. He sent glances around him, and often he checked if Thranduil saw anything. 

“Are there many Soothsayers here?”

“As I’ve told you before, I can’t tell such things,” Thranduil said, annoyed by the question. “Keep your head down, and you’ll be fine.”

Bard had to trust Thranduil enough, for he said no more.

"However that man—" Thranduil gestured towards a middle-aged man sitting on a bench by the local fountain. "—is a Wizard, but a rather bad one."

"How so?"

"He accidentally set the tavern on fire as a child _and_ as a teenager," Thranduil explained, smirking. The burden of his powers had been worth it, for once. "He hasn't been allowed in since."

Eventually they found themselves on the way back to their room, and Thranduil was eager to rest for the journey ahead. They would have to leave at dawn. 

Thranduil’s hand closed on the doorknob, and just like many times before over the days he had spent here, the headache that went with memories overtook him.

When he snapped back to the present, Bard was staring at him, something worried about the look on his face.

“What did you see?” he asked, tension in his voice. 

“We must go,” Thranduil said urgently, and Bard seemed to sense the edge in Thranduil's voice, for he didn't even ask why. “Someone’s been here, and they know who you are.”

“And I thought Rivendell was quieter,” Bard said under his breath, and he made to walk in first.

Thranduil stopped him by the shoulder before he could step inside. “They were not from Rivendell,” he said in a low voice, and Bard’s eyes widened slightly.

They hurried back to their room, gathered their belongings, put coats and capes and bags on their shoulders, and left like shadows to the Broken Forest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no logical reason behind my choice to make Bard shift into a lion. This fic is basically a big mix of the stories I used to imagine in my head as a child. They helped me fall asleep. And, in those stories the protagonist always had the ability to turn into a giant lion, so that's why :) (I think it suits Bard well tho? Knowing his lion self isn't majestic at all or anything.)
> 
> Oh and by the way, check out my other fics if you feel like it and give them some love? (like 'Somewhere Only We Know') It'd make me really happy! <3
> 
> As always your feedback means the world.


	7. The Broken Forest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Once again (ugh I'm the worst), I'm sorry for the delay. I wrote two stories for gift exchanges since chapter five, including a Barduil one, check it out if you're interested, I'd greatly appreciate it!
> 
> At this point I think I'll just say 'don't expect regular updates', but I have hope the next chap won't take two months. I'm slow but I can promise you I'm finishing this story no matter what, for as long as you enjoy it with me!
> 
> Anyway, I just hope you'll like this new chapter!
> 
> Thank you to my friend [Iza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/) for her precious editing!! <3

“Who were they?”

“I don’t know,” Thranduil said, leading Bard through the streets. “But there were four of them, and they were looking for you.”

“Did you hear why?” 

“No,” Thranduil replied, and he glanced Bard’s way. “They said they were looking for someone matching your description. And the tall blond accompanying him.”

Bard cursed; this couldn’t be good. Most people looking for him only wanted to make one of the last Shapeshifters wandering the land disappear, but the way Thranduil spoke of it, it sounded like those people might have another reason entirely.

“This way,” he said, moving past Thranduil and catching his arm. 

Further ahead they would find the open road and the Broken Forest, and it wouldn't be as easy to cross as the first forest they'd had to go through—and that, if Thranduil listened to Bard, which Bard hoped wouldn't be an issue.

“As we are followed, we shouldn’t walk along the forest’s edge,” Thranduil said. “We could stay close to it, but stay under the trees.”

Bard agreed with a short nod of his head. It was their best shot. If they walked the open road, even its border, they would be seen from afar, and be it by outlaws or by whomever looked for them, it would not be good. 

They stopped by the lake to quickly fill the waterskins; the sooner they would be hidden by the shadow of the trees, the sooner they would be safer. 

Before stepping inside the Broken Forest, Bard looked one last time in the direction of Lake-town, barely visible from so far away. But he could see the strongest of its lights, and he wondered if Tilda had already been put to bed, if she and her siblings had eaten well today. 

He wondered if Thranduil’s son was alright, too, wherever he might be. Sometimes Bard thought that Thranduil reuniting with his son would do him more good than an old ring. 

He closed his eyes, shaking the thoughts out of his head. 

He looked back to the Forest, and Thranduil was standing there under the trees, waiting for him. It was in these moments that Bard saw that something had changed about him; weeks ago he would have interrupted, told Bard they didn’t have time and they needed to get moving. Now, it was as though he understood, as though there was no more rush to get to the mountain. 

Thranduil had come to trust Bard fully, and Bard couldn’t deny that he trusted Thranduil, too. There had been this fear that someday Thranduil would get tired of travelling, ask to be brought back home and Bard wouldn’t get all that he had been promised; but it had withered, and Bard couldn’t believe Thranduil would do such a thing anymore. He would have given up on his ring already if his determination hadn’t been stronger than Bard had thought. 

Thranduil would keep his word, and Bard would see his children again.

“Let’s go,” Bard said, joining Thranduil and taking the lead. “What do you know about this forest?”

“I only know it’s dangerous.”

Bard nodded. “It is divided into three parts,” he explained. “First, miles of high trees. Then come the mushrooms for even longer, and then trees again.”

“The… mushrooms?”

“Giant ones,” Bard said. “You’ll see for yourself.”

He gestured for Thranduil to follow him.

“How long is getting to the mountains going to take?”

“Up to two weeks if everything goes as planned,” Bard said. “Let’s not lose our provisions this time.”

“Predators?” Thranduil inquired, and Bard could almost hear his thoughts; back in the first forest they had crossed, no predators would have dared attacking a Shapeshifter. But in the lowlands, they had been bolder, and that was something, it seemed, that Thranduil hadn’t expected. 

“No,” Bard replied. “The only predators we have to be wary of here are the plants, so keep an eye out, and don’t follow any smells. Stay close.”

Bard led Thranduil onwards and under the trees; if they were truly followed, walking until morning was for the best and, with the rest they had gotten by the lake, it was nothing they couldn’t manage, though a night of sleep would have done them good. 

Despite Bard’s warnings, there was little to be afraid of in this area. Danger would show itself the closer they got to the center of the forest, but until then all Thranduil had to be careful about was not to trip on the many roots scattered under the leaves of the forest’s floor.

That didn't mean, however, that this part of their journey wasn't the most dangerous.

By dawn, they had reached a clearing at the border of which Bard hoped they could rest for a few hours before getting on the road again. Even though he was used to travelling by now, he was still human, and he longed to close his eyes and let dreams take him far from the weights of consciousness. 

Thranduil hadn’t spoken since they had stepped foot in the Broken Forest, and when Bard glanced his way his exhaustion was apparent; they’d better stop and rest, if they wished to continue their journey on steady feet. 

Bard let his (brand new) bag fall to the ground, before he sat next to it, and huddled in his cloak. 

“I—”

“I will take the first watch,” Thranduil said, as he put his own cloak on the ground next to Bard, but he didn't sit on it. “Rest.”

Bard stared up at him, brows furrowed. “Alright,” he said, though Thranduil's consideration towards him over the past days was still a bit of a surprise; when he'd started this journey, he wouldn't have imagined Thranduil caring for him in any way. 

Appreciative, he lay on the grass and amongst the leaves, and the stars were hidden by clouds, but the moon still shone through them.

The last thing Bard saw before he closed his eyes was Thranduil's hair, shining like starlight.

At dawn, the many birds living in the trees woke Bard up from his slumber. He found Thranduil asleep not far from him, and with a sigh Bard crawled to him. He gently shook Thranduil’s shoulder.

“Why did you let me sleep?” Bard asked as he sat, and wiped the leaves off his clothes.

Thranduil let out what resembled a grunt as he rubbed his eyes.

“I didn't,” Thranduil retorted. “I just fell asleep.”

“Well that's even better, isn't it.”

A short, quiet laugh came from Thranduil, who used his arm to hide his face from daylight. 

Bard decided to give him some more time to escape the fog of sleep, thanking the skies that no one and nothing had found them while they lay there, unaware of all danger. 

He was quickly up and ready, and he was thankful his muscles were not sore from turning anymore; he didn't even feel any discomfort at all, though already, Bard missed the beds they had slept in in Rivendell.

Leaving the town had been harder than Bard had thought it'd be; they hadn't spent much time there, but Bard was still fond of the place, and like every time he had visited in the past, he wished he could stay longer without bringing attention to him—which wasn't a possibility anymore, and it hadn’t been for years now. 

But now, they had other things to worry about, and getting to the mountains safely was only one of them.

It took them four days to reach the unforgiving part of the Broken Forest. Bard smelled it before he saw it, and as he hadn’t briefed Thranduil yet, he halted by a large tree, covered in dark blue leaves. The closer they’d gotten to the center, the more the leaves had changed colour; they had gone from the usual green to blue and purple tones. 

“You're not going to like it,” Bard said, as he adjusted the bag on his shoulder, “but you'll have to stay closer to me than usual.”

Thranduil looked away from the leaves to raise an eyebrow at him. “I'm not a child, you don't need to tell me not to touch things I know nothing about.”

“Trust me,” Bard replied. “The forest is filled with—”

“Mushrooms, I know.”

Bard glared. “Not just mushrooms; they release pores, which will make you go towards the plants. Touch those, and this journey is over.”

“Because you're immune to them?”

“No,” Bard said. “I almost died the first time I went there.”

“How do you resist, then?”

“I eat some of the smaller ones,” Bard explained. “And you will, too.”

“Excuse me?”

“You'll eat the mushrooms, and so you'll keep some of your head,” Bard said. “But as it'll be your first time, you might still need someone to keep an eye on you, before you run to your death.”

Bard didn’t wait for Thranduil’s answer to keep going, for he knew there would be none.

“Tell me if you see any small, black ones,” he added over his shoulder. “Black as the night.”

Those mushrooms had a particular knack for growing anywhere; under roots, on branches, under water, which made them easier to find in some way, but harder in another—it wasn’t easy, to find something that could be anywhere. And, under the shadows of the forest, small black things were not easily spotted. 

Thranduil impressed Bard by being the one who found some first, growing in a hole inside a trunk, and grimaced when Bard told him to get rid of any dirt if he wanted to, and eat one without so much as cooking it. 

Bard did the same. The taste was bitter, but it was quickly replaced by a sweet flavour similar to the smell they would soon have to deal with. 

He put the others in one of his satchels, and they didn’t spare another minute there, and instead kept going. The faster they’d get through, the better.

It took them no longer than fifteen minutes to see the mushrooms ahead, and another to get to them. They were as high as the trees, hiding all natural light, and came in a large variety of blue tones, from the clearest of sky blues to the darkest. 

As expected, Thranduil was sensitive to the mushrooms’ scent, and even though Bard had made him eat some, he still spent most of the time holding Thranduil’s wrist and stopping him from going right towards his death; but, at least, Thranduil didn’t insist, and merely let himself be directed away. 

Thranduil had asked, one day, what would happen if a living thing touched any of the poisonous plants at the base of the mushrooms. Bard had picked up a leaf, wrapped it around a rock, and thrown it. 

It had withered before it had even touched the surface. 

When the night came, Bard would take them further away from the mushrooms, and closer to the road, though always he made sure they could not be seen from there.

Days now after they had left Rivendell, Bard still worried about the people who had almost found him; whoever they were, they were looking for him for a reason, and he doubted their intentions were as honourable as Thranduil’s had been.

 

“How much longer?” Thranduil asked, six days into their walk amongst the tree-like mushrooms. Bard didn’t need to keep a solid grip on his arm anymore, but he never let Thranduil out of sight for too long. If they kept their pace, they would be back under actual trees before sundown. 

Bard stopped, crossing his arms over his chest. “I thought we were past these kinds of questions.”

“This place is like perpetual night,” Thranduil protested. “It’s easy to lose track of time.”

Bard made a short wave of his hand with a nod. Thranduil was right, he had to give him that. He rubbed at his neck, thinking hard.

“Just a few more hours, no more than five or six, and we’ll see a bit of sunlight again.” 

Thranduil seemed pleased with the answer. Deep down, Bard understood him; he longed for some light other than the one produced by the mushrooms, as well. 

Bard turned back forwards, and kept walking.

But he stopped three feet further—he’d felt he wasn’t followed anymore, too used to Thranduil’s presence to miss such a change.

Bard looking behind to see Thranduil not far from where he had left him, eyes lost and mouthing words Bard couldn't understand.

In his hand he held a chain, from which a silver ring hung. 

Bard’s hand flew to his neck again, and his eyes widened.

It was his ring, and it had been a gift from his wife. It had been given to him on the day she’d—

“Oh, no,” Bard whispered, walking back to Thranduil and catching both his arms. 

Bard didn’t know much about Soothsayers, but he knew enough to be able to tell that visions were never this bad, and never took longer than a few seconds; without doubt, the mushrooms’ scent had other, unsuspected effects on Thranduil’s abilities, which he hadn’t noticed until now.

No matter how Bard tried, Thranduil wouldn't go back to himself, and so Bard breathed deep, before sitting on a rock and running his hand across his face. He felt as if his heart was in his throat, and tried hard not to think of what Thranduil had to be seeing. 

Those memories—he had always kept them in a far corner of his mind, where he didn't go back to of his own accord. But he remembered everything nonetheless; every detail, every word, every feeling. 

There was a reason Shapeshifters were so rare, and it was no secret; all of them turned under the pressure of an heavily emotional event, triggering their instinct—great danger, death threat, and more. 

Most were killed on the spot, for those things rarely happened without witnesses. 

There had been witnesses, when Bard had turned for the first time—and then, there hadn't been anymore.

And Bard remembered it all, as though it had happened the day before. 

He remembered the hill, climbing it with his wife, settling their belongings for a quiet day, and later telling her to wait there, while he got some fish from the river. 

They had merely wanted to spend a day together, just the two of them, like they used to when they were oblivious teenagers. They had prepared that afternoon for weeks, and Bard had made sure everything went as planned.

But he hadn’t seen any of it coming. Not any of them, either. 

He had seen it all happen from there, by the river.

He remembered he had screamed her name, and felt pain like he had never before. Everything else had been a blur, red as the blood that had been shed, and then the blue of the sky when he had regained his senses, moments later. 

Bard had killed them in the fury of that bestial part of him that had been awakened, but he hadn't been able to save her. There had been no satisfaction in their death; just the pain of what he had lost. 

He had cradled her, and cried until the sun had disappeared, and only then gotten to his feet. He would have stayed there, if there hadn't been for the children, waiting for them. 

Waiting for him. 

He hadn't bothered cleaning himself in the river, only snuck home and put on clothes before fetching his children.

He had hated leaving her there, but even then, Bard knew he had been lucky; he knew what happened to Shapeshifters, and if he had turned in public, his children would have had no one. He had lied about what had happened, and no one had ever known the truth apart from Lake-town’s Master, who Bard had always been sure was the one who’d sent those men after him.

That was, until now.

The memories linked to the ring were strong, and when Thranduil took a sharp intake of breath merely a few seconds later, Bard held his.

He felt sick.

Thranduil stared at him, not speaking a word, and so Bard stood to take a step forward, and took the chain from Thranduil, who let it slide between his fingers as if it were water. Bard put it back around his neck, hid it under his tunic like he always did. 

“Aren’t you going to say something?” Bard said, finally meeting Thranduil’s eyes, and finding himself unable to put words on what he saw in them.

“It was you,” Thranduil breathed, at last, and Bard couldn't decipher which emotions to hear in his voice. “You killed them. The Pack's leaders.”

Bard had never been proud of what he had done; but he hadn't been able to bring himself to completely regret it, either. It wasn't right, and he hadn't taken pleasure or found comfort in taking those lives, but he couldn't. 

Shapeshifters didn’t get stronger the first time they turned, but they got wilder, and more unpredictable. And Bard—Bard had been full of rage and pain that day. The Pack, even with their experience, hadn’t stood a chance faced to something they could never have expected. 

“Yes,” he said, looking away. “I did.”

“I've always wanted to thank the person who did it.”

His eyes snapped back to Thranduil in an instant. Bard stared at him, trying to understand what to take from Thranduil's words. 

“Excuse me?”

“You killed the men who murdered my wife,” Thranduil said, and his eyes were sad and cold. “So I thank you.”

“Don't,” Bard replied. The lump in his throat was bigger; he hadn’t known Thranduil’s wife had lost her life to The Pack, too. “Don't thank me for that.”

A bitter laugh shook Thranduil. “They got what they deserved.”

“Perhaps,” Bard said. He adjusted his bag, tried to ease the tension settled in his shoulders. “It doesn’t make me proud of it.”

Thranduil seemed ready to lash out.

“They killed your wife—our wives!” he exclaimed. “How can you even begin to regret it?”

“Because that would make me a monster, like those men were!” Bard snapped. He paused, inhaling deep to calm both his mind and his voice. When he continued, his voice was calmer, but not rid of emotion. “And I’ve tried so hard, so hard, Thranduil, to be anything but one. That’s what the world wants me to be, that’s what _they_ wanted me to be so they could have an excuse to hunt me, to kill me, to take my children away.” 

Another pause, to close his eyes.

“I didn’t say I regret what I’ve done. If I hadn’t, my children would have had no one,” Bard said, then repeated as he opened his eyes again, “But I am not proud, and I will not brag that I killed people. Can you please leave me that?”

No answer came from Thranduil, but he stood tall, his eyes not leaving Bard’s. It wasn’t defiance, but it could have looked like it. Understanding what it meant wasn’t hard—they didn’t agree on this, and maybe they never would. 

“Nevermind,” Bard said, putting a clear end to the conversation. “Let’s get out of here before we forget not to get too close to these things.” 

The remainder of the walk was spent in silence, for which Bard was thankful—he had much to think about as his eyes trailed over their surroundings, always careful to make sure they were safe.

They reached the last part of the forest without trouble. Bard had no doubt Thranduil was as glad to see trees as he was, if the way he walked faster and looked up to the canopy, letting rays of sunshine fall on his face, was anything to go by. 

Bard made them walk for one more hour, until he stopped in a new, smaller clearing, illuminated by the setting sun. From there, Bard couldn’t see the open road, but he could see how the light was stronger ahead. They were close but far enough—they wouldn’t find a better place to spend the night. 

“Let’s rest until tomorrow,” Bard murmured. “It’s enough for one day.”

It was all that was said that evening, and up until the next morning, when both sat awake, going through their bags to check what they had left and what needed to be gathered again.

The last time they had been so silent was in the first days of their journey, and Bard found he didn’t like this step backwards, even if it wasn’t meant to last.

When he was done with his bag, Bard picked a stick from the ground. He’d look for the plants he needed as they’d make their way to the tunnel under the mountains.

“You didn’t complain about your feet,” Bard said, as he drew incoherent lines upon the dirt.

Thranduil turned to glare at him. “The socks help.”

“Good,” Bard said, so low Thranduil might not have heard him.

Thranduil looked at him for a while, not moving from his spot. Bard wondered what he was thinking about, as Thranduil’s eyes trailed over his face. 

“I’m sorry,” Thranduil said then, and Bard didn’t need to ask what Thranduil was talking about. “It wasn’t mine to see.”

The last thing he’d expected was an apology. Thranduil didn’t seem to be the kind of person to give any freely; it had to be hard earned, and Bard didn’t feel like he deserved it. 

“You didn’t mean to,” Bard said. “It’s your burden.”

Thranduil stared at him, something Bard couldn’t quite decipher in his eyes. “Many wouldn’t call it a burden,” he said. 

Bard shook his head. “We all have enough to deal with as it is,” he replied, slowly. “I wouldn’t want to bear strangers’ hardships, even in exchange of my own.” 

“You’re not a stranger.” 

‘Am I not?’ was the first thing Bard thought to answer, but it didn’t come out. Instead he let his gaze trail over the messy dragon he’d drawn upon the ground. He wasn’t used not to be a stranger to people, but Thranduil was right; Bard didn’t know when, but they had stopped being strangers to each other days, maybe weeks ago. He might not know everything there was to know about Thranduil, and Thranduil might not know everything about him, but perhaps they would come to.

‘Stranger’ wasn’t a word they could use to define the other anymore. 

It hadn’t been that long, really, since they had met in Bree’s tavern—about two months, maybe less, maybe more, and yet spending all that time together, never apart, made it often feel like much longer. 

Bard found himself smiling at the thought, and at Thranduil’s words—just a little.

The next few days passed in a blur. Bard couldn’t believe how lucky they had been, for they hadn’t faced any trouble, and neither of them had been hurt. On the other hand, he couldn’t help but fear this might only be the quiet before the storm—who knew what awaited them near and through the mountains. 

Over the next few days they managed to find a stream from which they replenished their stock of water, and Bard found most of the plants he’d been looking for. 

Every night after his watch, Bard lay on his side, good eye towards the sky. He listened to the sounds around him, watched the few stars he could see above. 

Sooner or later Thranduil joined him, and the warmth and pressure of Thranduil’s back against his own was a comforting one. 

It was Thranduil who woke Bard on the last day, by calling his name until Bard opened his eyes and blinked at him, still confused from sleep. But then he saw their bags ready by the remains of the fire they had lit that night, and Thranduil already putting on his cloak, and he remembered why he was here, and where they were going. 

The last hours went smoothly, and when the early afternoon came Bard heaved a sigh of relief at the sight he’d been waiting for.

From where they stood under the trees they could already see the tunnel going through the mountains. Despite himself a smile spread over Bard’s lips; once they’d crossed it, they would have little to worry about until they got to the woods surrounding Erebor, except perhaps for the men who, thankfully, hadn't caught up with them. 

One last challenge, and then they would have some peace.

He turned to face Thranduil, but he didn’t look as enthusiastic as Bard felt. 

“What?”

“I’m not going in there.”

“Wha—why not?” Bard asked, confused, and as he spoke those words he remembered Thranduil’s reluctance on the day he had first mentioned the tunnel, all these weeks ago. 

“You won’t be able to turn inside that tunnel,” Thranduil said. His body seemed just a little stiffer, as though he was on the defensive. “We’ll be trapped. We are _not_ going in.”

Bard made a harsh move of his arm, before he pinched the bridge of his nose. He didn’t have the heart to argue, knowing well Thranduil’s mind wouldn’t be changed, for there was truth in his words. The tunnel was safer, but there was something reassuring about seeing where one was going, a security Bard could understand wanting to keep.

“You're putting us both in danger,” Bard hissed. “I hope you’re aware of that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big things coming up in the next chapter (and I'll elaborate just a little, little bit more on why or why not taking the tunnel--just mentioning this since I don't really like how I ended the chapter, but oh well!) I've been waiting almost two years to write it, so I'm very excited!
> 
> Please leave me a comment if you're still following and enjoying the story? Even a few words would mean the world to me, thank you so much! <3


	8. The Gorges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big chapter for you today! Posting at an usual time because I couldn't sleep anymore at about 3:30 A.M., so my beta and I have been editing since then, and the chapter is now here! I hope you'll like it!!
> 
> As usual, huge thanks to my friend [Iza](http://archiveofourown.org/user/Piyo13/) for the editing. Check out her work, she's got amazing Tolkien and YOI fics!

They decided to spent the rest of the day gathering food and water, but as soon as they went back to the road the next morning, Thranduil understood he might have, in some way, made a mistake. Bard was, to say the least, on edge. His shoulders seemed stiff, he often looked around, and he had no choice but to have his good eye on the side of the mountain’s wall. Thranduil guessed it explained most of Bard’s behavior, but he doubted it was the only reason behind it.

Surprisingly, Thranduil found he didn’t like being the cause. 

But there was no way he would have stepped inside the tunnel; inside it would have been dark, and narrow, and wet. If they stumbled upon something, what were their chances, with Bard unable to turn, with the both of them unable to run? It was a risk he didn’t want to take, and he’d rather go through the gorges, even if, according to Bard, they were more dangerous. At least they would see where they were going. 

Besides, Bard had quickly yielded to Thranduil’s refusal. Maybe it wasn’t as bad an idea as Bard made it sound, after all. 

This change of plan also meant adding a few more days to their journey, which Thranduil didn’t mind, though he’d rather have spent them with Bard in a better mood. On the first day, the only times he spoke were to tell Thranduil to stop, or to be careful of the small, though no less dangerous, creatures living amongst the rocks they walked past.

It was only at dawn the next day, when Thranduil couldn’t find any sleep, that he felt Bard heave out a sigh behind him.

Only then did Bard talk. “Do you know what I hate?” he asked.

“How stubborn I am?”

“No,” Bard said. “I hate that I can’t be mad at you, no matter how scared I am.”

Thranduil’s brows furrowed, turning on his back so he could see Bard. He was in the same position, eyes following Thranduil’s movements. “ _You’re_ scared?” Thranduil asked. 

Bard tilted his head slightly to the side. “Yes. I’m not immortal, nor invincible. I could die today, or tomorrow. And you could, too.”

Thranduil’s gaze trailed over Bard’s features. There was nothing to be seen, if one didn’t look hard enough, but Thranduil—Thranduil could see it; Bard was worried, or at the very least, preoccupied.

“I trust you to keep me alive, don’t I?” he tried, a smirk in his voice, his words free of the heaviness of the consequences they might have held, weeks ago. By now, Thranduil was past reminders that had hidden hints of threat. Thranduil had come to respect Bard for the way he’d handled them—and Thranduil had quickly realized they were of no use. 

Bard smiled, but it was faint and didn’t reach his eyes. “I suppose you do.”

Despite himself, Thranduil’s face fell as soon as he sat and looked away. Bard’s words took another meaning now that Thranduil knew his secret. 

Thranduil had hated that he’d seen it. Something so personal shouldn’t be shared unwillingly.

He didn’t hate himself for it, but Thranduil did hate his abilities; as he’d told Bard the next morning, it hadn’t been his to see. It never was. And here, things had been different; he never knew the people whose memories he saw, and so he cared not and forgot—but he had come to know Bard. Thranduil wouldn’t go as far as to call Bard a friend, but he was a good companion, and that? That changed everything. 

From now on, Thranduil wouldn’t touch anything of Bard’s that he hadn’t touched before.

Sighing silently to himself, Thranduil stood, looking around. The bags were already made, and the rising sun shone lightly upon them. They had found refuge behind rocks, the only thing that kept them out of sight from the open road. Bard didn’t seem so worried about the people who’d been following them anymore—at least, for now.

“We’re safe from them for now,” Bard had whispered to himself one night, thinking Thranduil asleep, “We’re safe.”

Bard had started when Thranduil had replied, “Why?”

It had taken Bard a moment to answer. “They must have followed the border of the forest to get to the tunnel—they’ll think we’ve taken it,” he’d said. “We would be fools not to.”

“Won’t they see our tracks?”

Thranduil had felt Bard shake his head behind him. “There’s been nothing but big pebbles since we’ve left the forest, and we’ve been careful,” Bard had replied, then repeated, “We’re safe for now.”

Thranduil hoped Bard was right. In the end, choosing between the tunnel and the gorges had been choosing between their pursuers and creatures, both of them things even Bard was afraid of. 

Thranduil’s eyes followed the walls of the mountains, high and impossible to climb, until they stopped on a darker part; there was where they would enter the gorges. Thranduil couldn’t make out any of it. He couldn’t make out any water, either.

Putting his nose against his shoulder, Thranduil breathed in. He frowned at the smell. Streams were good enough to keep minimal hygiene, but they were almost out of Thranduil’s piece of dry soap, and he wanted to keep it until they’d be close to the next town. What he needed was a proper bath, be it in a tub or a river. 

Sending a quick look at Bard, who’d sat up as well, Thranduil concluded he definitely needed one, too. 

With a quiet, low grunt Thranduil picked one of the fruits Bard had found before they’d left the forest; strange, large and perfectly round purple fruits that tasted so sweet Thranduil feared each bite meant a new cavity. He had to hit it twice, hard against a rock, for it to open. 

Thranduil threw one Bard’s way, who caught it like a ball and, without stopping in his motion, swiftly cracked it open.

Bard’s bag was full of them and other varieties despite their weight, and that could only mean one thing: they wouldn’t stop to hunt or look for food while they crossed the gorges.

Their improvised breakfast was quickly done with.

Thranduil wondered how much weight he’d lost, since they had left his home, which felt like so long ago. Bard, on the contrary, seemed to have gained some; thanks to Thranduil’s money, they had started their journey with substantial stocks, at least compared to Bard was used to, and they’d gotten more in Rivendell. Though, that didn’t change Bard’s thinness much, in the end.

Shaking the thoughts out of his head, Thranduil met Bard’s eyes. He had just stood up and was closing his cloak over his shoulders. With a nod of his head, he invited Thranduil to do the same. 

Thranduil nodded back, standing up. They still had a long way to go.

They had reached the next step of their journey by the next day. The sun was high in the sky when they stopped to look ahead, a dark shadow over Bard’s face, and just a hint of wonder on Thranduil’s. 

Below, the path that lead on the other side of the mountains looked like a maze that seemed to never end. Huge rocks created turns and dead-ends, and a river streamed across it all, finding its birth and its end between the gorges’ walls, which were covered in what seemed to be caves, reminding Thranduil of a beehive. 

Lonely, dead trees were scattered across it all, offering shelter from neither the sun nor the rain. 

It was impressive, to say the least, but the paths seemed easy to take, and Thranduil trusted Bard to find their way to the other side without much trouble.

Thranduil understood, now, why the gorges were as dangerous as the tunnel; they would hopefully see threats coming, but they could come from anywhere. As he looked up to the sky, he thought that, would they be attacked from the air, they would stand no chance.

He caught Bard looking at him from the corner of his eye. Thranduil faced him.

Bard said, “Dragons don’t care for small prey. They only attack carriages, towns, groups of people or animals—anything that is worth putting their fire to use.” 

Thranduil stared; it was as though Bard had read his thoughts.

“I wondered the same, for a second,” Bard said, answering Thranduil’s silent question.

“Stay close,” Bard told him then, more out of habit than anything else—Thranduil could tell from the tone of his voice.

Now armed with his own blades, Thranduil was perhaps not as deadly as Bard could be in his other form, but he was just as able to defend himself against threats he could take on. His new daggers were a reassuring weight at his hips.

“Have you crossed it before?” Thranduil asked as they walked down the hill to the maze.

“Once,” Bard said. His hand was gripping the hilt of his own dagger. “If this place had been created by humans, it would have been to make people scared of losing their way. It’s a trick; the road to follow isn’t hard to find, but while we worry about it, we don’t notice what’s waiting in there.”

“What kind of predators?” This time, Thranduil didn’t have to ask if there were any; Bard’s words and behavior said enough.

“Mostly big ones. Migrating animals don’t know about the tunnel, nor do occasional travellers. They all make easy prey here,” Bard replied. “Even carriages take a big risk—they have no choice but to cross the mountains through the gorges, but it’s extremely dangerous.”

“That’s why there’s so little trade with the north-west,” Thranduil mused out loud. 

Bard nodded, face hard. “Only rich merchants who can afford enough bodyguards for their merchandise risk it,” he said. “But they rarely come along themselves.”

Bard then proceeded to explain where they would sleep over the next few days; in the smallest caves, those they could get into without any of the beasts Bard feared they would meet able to follow them.

The first day passed quickly into the evening, leaving little time for Thranduil to process what he’d got himself into, but just enough to notice Bard acted little differently than when they’d walked alongside the mountains’ wall: shoulders tense, gaze constantly searching, pace steady, bordering on pressing.

Thranduil would have to wait for the next morning to ask how far they’d gone, though from his estimations, it’d take them three to five days to get on the other side. He had no doubt these few days would be the most stressful of their journey; but strangely, or naively, Thranduil didn’t feel much more worried than he usually was. 

Better to leave the worrying to Bard. 

The cave Bard picked was just large enough for the both of them. They hadn’t been able to enter it at the same time, which made it impossible for anything big to attack them; the night would be a sweet, restful one. 

It was still early as Thranduil started a fire with branches found outside, and Bard broke and cut fruits, which they would grill above the flame. The last rays of sunshine were blocked by the mountains, and so the gorges were quickly plunged into darkness. Maybe this would be the most rest they’d get in weeks.

They ate in comfortable silence, glad for the warmth of the cave; here the wind was kind, and the caves made remarkable shelters against the cold, if one knew how to tend a fire.

Eventually, Thranduil said, “I didn’t know there was a river around here.”

Bard, who was sitting by the entrance, eyes fixed on the sky, turned to face him. “Not many do. This river starts and ends in the gorges,” he replied. “It goes through some of the caves in the form of streams—we’ll try to find one tomorrow night.”

Thranduil nodded, before he lay on the rock, using his bag as a pillow. 

They didn’t find a cave like they hoped for the next night, but they replenished their waterskin in the river, and Bard seemed satisfied enough.

As Bard as said, finding their way through the maze was easy; all they had to do was follow the path created by hundreds of carriages over the years. If it had once been difficult not to get lost in the gorges, it wasn’t anymore. 

The landscape, however, seemed to never change, and when the fourth day came, it seemed to Thranduil that they had walked the maze for much longer. Perhaps the ever-present tension played a role in that, too. Bard never relaxed whenever they were outside the safety of a cave, and getting closer to the other side only seemed to make it worse, though he said nothing.

They were getting ready for what they hoped would be their last day in the gorges, when Bard set his bag aside, and asked, “Your son—do you ever worry about him?”

“Yes,” Thranduil said at once. He didn’t know why Bard brought this up, but understood why he wondered. Thranduil thought much of Legolas, but spoke little of him. “But he went with some friends used to the road; I like to think that makes him safer.”

“Is he gifted, like you?”

Thranduil shook his head as he put a bowl they’d used to mash fruits into his bag. “Lhaewel was,” he said. “Legolas always wished he had his mother’s gift, but none ever showed. He got used to it, and worked hard to get his own.”

There was a small smile on Bard’s lips when he replied, “She had a gift with animals, didn’t she?”

Thranduil looked up to him, brows forming a frown. “How did you know?”

“You mentioned once that she loved the wild.”

Thranduil paused at that. He knew Bard paid attention to their conversations, but it had never occurred to him that Bard took it seriously enough to remember such details, just like Thranduil himself remembered small things about Bard’s children that he had somehow committed to memory.

“Why do you ask?” Thranduil asked, more quietly.

Bard shrugged. “I worry about my children. I thought that at least, they had a home and a warm bed.” He paused, then added, “I thought it had to be hard for you, too.”

Thranduil didn’t think when he replied, “It is.”

There was something strangely comforting about saying it. 

There was something strangely comforting about saying it to someone who could understand.

Thranduil stared at Bard. He had wanted him to say it, hadn’t he?

“I thought I was private about my feelings, until I met you. I know they show on my face, more than I’d like them to—but you? You hide everything. Sometimes it’s good not to.” Bard’s voice was gentle, but before Thranduil could reply, Bard stood up, adjusted his cloak over his shoulders, and said, “We should go.”

It didn’t feel like he was running away, more like he was giving Thranduil time to think about his words.

Thranduil agreed with a nod, and did the same.

Outside, it was pouring rain, so hard Thranduil couldn’t see more than a few feet away. The water was warm, but the air cold, and when Thranduil glanced at Bard there was a frown across his face.

“This isn’t good,” he said. “Let’s not lower our guard.”

Thranduil understood: the predators who lived here were used to the weather. With this rain, travellers and prey alike were more vulnerable than they already were. 

If something were to strike, it would be today.

Thranduil had a bad feeling about this, and given the look in Bard’s eye, it was mutual.

Yet three hours later, the road had been quiet. But their clothes were damp, their hair sticking to their heads despite their hoods, their bodies soaked to the bone, and Thranduil was thankful for the cloth protecting their necks enough from the cold; Thranduil hoped neither of them would be struck by sickness.

“Will this rain ever stop,” Thranduil muttered under his breath.

Just two feet ahead, Bard grunted in answer; it elicited a small smirk from Thranduil—for once, Bard seemed to be as annoyed by their condition as he was.

Thranduil’s smirk fell off his face as soon as Bard froze, a hand raised halfway up, the other resting on the hilt of his dagger. Thranduil took out his own, gripping them hard; he’d heard it as well.

A low growl, barely discernible through the rain.

Instinctively, Thranduil turned around, so that he and Bard were back to back.

They were like statues, water pouring on them, squinting and trying to see what lurked in the shadows. They stood in a small open space, surrounded by rocks, two larger ones a few feet away from them—Thranduil had seen them ahead before he’d turned away to face the road they’d come from. 

What they could see wasn’t any different than it’d been over the past days; just rock and dead trees and the river. All greys and beiges and browns, under the blue of the sky, now matching the colours of the gorges, as if it was made of dirt. 

Thranduil’s gaze caught something, up a rock. 

A huge, feline shape was crouched there, tail lashing, ears flat on its head. It was as big, if not slightly bigger, than Bard’s form was.

“Bard,” Thranduil said, voice almost a murmur, calm and steady though he felt uneasy. “Up there.” 

Movement told him Bard was, slowly, glancing over his shoulder. 

“Chameleon beasts,” is all Bard said, voice pressing. He called them that as though they were pests, unworthy of any other name. 

There was no time for explanations, but Thranduil didn’t need them; he’d heard of them, long ago, when a storyteller had used the beasts as villains of his story. They didn’t look to kill; only to hurt enough to stop their prey from running away. They ate the big ones alive, and left the others to die. 

As Thranduil thought so, the beast jumped from the rock, landing silently upon the ground. It was all long, strong legs and short fur of the same tones as everything around it, broad shoulders and sharp claws made to cut and lacerate. 

All it took was a blink, and it was gone.

Thranduil drew in a sharp breath. 

He wouldn’t have seen it if the corner of his eye hadn’t caught it. 

Thranduil ducked the attack, then spun on himself to see that Bard had done the same. 

Everything happened fast, too fast, after that.

The beast went for Bard, first. 

A curse left Thranduil’s lips; he’d seen back in the lowlands how Bard wasn’t as good at fighting with daggers as Thranduil had thought. Bard’s reputation was only a mask created to protect himself from people—not beasts wandering the land. 

Thranduil was on the predator in a second, using surprise to hit the beast’s shoulder and give Bard just enough time to dodge the next attack, enough time to distract the beast and allow Bard to bury his own dagger to the hilt through its neck. 

For short moment, he thought they’d miraculously made it—but things were never so easy. Things were unfair, and unforgiving.

Thranduil didn’t have time to warn Bard; he saw the second beast right behind them as the landscape seemed to move and take its form, and it caught Bard’s bag, throwing him aside like a raggedy doll. His daggers slid further away. 

As if it knew Thranduil had made the death of its partner possible, the beast stared into Thranduil’s eyes, making him step back, one step after the other. If it had smelled Bard’s nature, it didn’t care. 

Thranduil’s heart beat faster than ever—he could be fast, but the beast was, too, and he didn’t have the element of surprise this time. Besides, his bag made him slower. 

For a second he thought he’d die today, without telling his son how sorry he was. Thranduil hadn’t given up just yet, but in that moment, the end of the line seemed as much a plausible outcome as making it out alive. His grip on his dagger grew tighter, and he prepared to strike, whether he hit his mark or not. 

He didn’t have an occasion to; Bard, only a huge flash of fur, hit the beast’s side with all the force of his shoulder, sending it staggering away from Thranduil. 

Thranduil didn’t see much of what happened next. The two giants rolled and growled and roared, in a blur of teeth and claws. But Thranduil saw when it stopped; when the bigger one pressed the smaller against one of the two large rocks with all the strength in its body, mouth closed on his side, by his leg. Blood ran down its jaw, stark red. 

Thranduil’s eye found Bard’s unseeing one, angry, scared, desperate in the way it was widened.

Thranduil’s breath hitched, fear spreading through him. He sprang into action, and it was all that was needed to distract to beast, enough for Bard to manage shifting position enough to close his own mouth around the beast’s neck. 

Just as Thranduil dug his dagger into the beast’s heart, there was a loud, sinister _crack_. The beast went limp, slayed by their combined blow. It slumped to the ground when Bard let go. Blood mixed with water, streaming away. 

In a last attempt to get rid of the beast, Bard made a harsh, sudden move of its back leg. 

Shock hit Thranduil’s chest, and he was pushed not far away, rolling in the mud.

Then, it was quiet. Just the hammering of thousands of drops around him.

Regaining his spirits, Thranduil squinted through the rain, trying to see through. His hands were freezing. His heart beat so fast it felt like it would give out.

The first beast lay dead where it had been left. The second was motionless by Bard’s unmoving side.

“Bard,” Thranduil called. He thought he saw Bard’s tail lash, almost imperceptibly, but there was no sound from Bard to go with it.

A cold shiver ran down Thranduil’s back.

Thranduil ran back over to him, bending down to rest his hand on Bard’s strong shoulder, eyes darting over Bard’s body. Bard was breathing—even better, he was awake, eye fixed on him, and the relief that washed over Thranduil was so sudden he thought he would gasp for air—but his next intake of breath was measured, and he kept his calm. 

One could have thought he was his cold, impassible self, yet he was far from it. Under his mask of control and his precise movements, he was still scared. 

It was strange; Thranduil had never thought he would get scared again for a life other than one of his own blood again.

Thranduil squinted against the water that streamed down his face, soaking his clothes, his hair. Even under the rain, Bard’s body wasn’t rid of blood, and Thranduil cursed under his breath; he couldn’t tell which was the beasts’, which was Bard’s. Eventually Bard moved his front leg, just enough for Thranduil to see under it. 

The flesh there was lacerated, and the smell of blood was carried by the air. Bard’s jaws were clenched so hard Thranduil could see the tension in it.

Bard might have still been alive, but for how long?

“Bard,” Thranduil said again over the rain, putting his hand over a wound, feeling the warmth of the blood against his skin. “You’ve got to turn back—you need to turn back!”

Bard closed his eyes at Thranduil’s words, as though he knew he had no choice, but didn’t want to. Thranduil didn’t like it either; with Bard weaker because of turning, perhaps he wouldn’t be strong enough to deal with his injuries. 

They’d have to act fast.

It seemed to Thranduil like Bard turning back to his original form took all the time in the world. He didn’t flinch at the groans and the sounds, but they still cut through him. 

As soon as Bard was back in his human form, blood spread on his clothes like wildfire. It was all it took for Thranduil to slide his arm under Bard’s armpits, and help him to his feet. They almost slid in the mud, but Thranduil kept them up.

He looked around. A path led directly to the beehive-like caves in the mountains’ left wall. 

Quickly Thranduil set his choice on a second level cave, just large enough to let them in. As expected, getting there proved itself harder, but at least they would be safer. Perhaps they had never needed to be as safe as they did now. 

“Hold on,” Thranduil said, adjusting his arm under Bard’s shoulders.

With some difficulty they got in, and they were welcomed by a warmer air, and a cool breeze.

A stream of clean water passed through the cave, and Thranduil felt another tug of relief; water would be essential, now more than ever. He wished, though, that luck had taken another form. Thranduil shook his head. It wasn’t right, to put the blame on luck when he was the one who had insisted they come this way. If it was anyone’s fault, it was his—but now was not the moment to let any form of guilt take over him.

He led Bard close to the stream, made him sit next to it and against the wall of stone. Bard’s first reaction was to sigh, then close his arm over his chest, wincing. His breathing was raw.

Meanwhile Thranduil put the bags on the ground next to them, and proceeded to fumble through them in search of clean cloth. Once found, Thranduil proceeded to quickly wash his hands in the stream without a word. He then helped Bard taking off his cloak and tunic, until his chest was bare. 

It was as bad as Thranduil had feared. There was an angry bite on Bard’s side, and two deep cuts went from his collarbone to his nipple, bleeding still. The white of the bone, slightly incised, looked back at Thranduil; he felt sick at the sight.

There was a cut to his shoulder as well; not deep, but bleeding.

Thranduil didn’t lose any more time; using the cloth, he cleaned the wounds of dirt, ignoring Bard’s groans. 

“In my satchels,” Bard said as soon as Thranduil was done, voice weak but determined. “The red leaves and the seeds, make a paste—it’ll stop infection. Bowls are in my bag. Needles and thread as well. Be quick.”

Remembering how Bard had taken care of the cut to his arm, Thranduil set off to work, following both his memories and Bard’s few instructions, until Bard lapsed into silence, eyes shut, mouth pressed into a thin line.

From time to time a grunt escaped him, and no matter the progress Thranduil made in cleaning and stitching up Bard’s wounds, he worried Bard would catch a fever, or worse; turning had made his resistance low, and that was the worst condition Bard could have been in today. 

Thranduil never stopped trying to keep Bard awake as he took care of the cuts and bites, talking to him and making him talk, until Bard’s body took the best of him.

Then, like the calm after the storm, there was not a sound but their breaths, and the rain hitting rock outside.

Thranduil sat there on his knees, watching Bard breathe, watching his handiwork, the wounds that would turn into yet new scars. 

Guilt gripping his gut, Thranduil looked down to his hands, finding them covered in blood and shaking in the most imperceptible way. He closed them into fists, and pressed his knuckles flat against his forehead. He let out a short breath, that caught in his throat.

Never had he wanted to sleep more than he did now. 

He found none, that night. 

Later, the rain stopped and the cold air froze the water, Thranduil lit a fire near the entrance to keep them warm. He never let Bard out of his sight. Each hour that passed without any sign of fever made Thranduil breathe a little better. Perhaps he had acted fast enough; both when he’d killed the beast, and tended to Bard’s injuries. It didn’t make him feel better, didn’t ease the guilt he didn’t want to feel, couldn’t help but feel, but it was enough reassurance that maybe, Bard would make it without complications.

The first time Bard woke was in the middle of the night. He took a sharp intake of breath, causing him to cough his pain away. He looked down to his chest, for merely a second, and said, “Thank you.”

He didn’t need to say ‘for saving my life’ for Thranduil to hear it, and Thranduil didn’t understand why would Bard thank him, when he wouldn’t be in pain now, if Thranduil had just listened to him. 

But Bard was right; guilt and blame would take them nowhere. What was done was done, and they had to live with it. 

The second time Bard woke was the next morning. Thranduil watched as he slowly reached out to the cloth. He put it in Thranduil’s hand, and the look he gave Thranduil was like a silent authorization. “We’ll need food,” Bard merely said. 

Bard was sleeping again by the time Thranduil had started cleaning his skin of dirt and sweat. He’d known a good hygiene was important to a good recovery, but with the wounds cleaned, Thranduil had preferred waiting for Bard’s permission, if it didn’t come too late. 

Later that day Thranduil went back to where the beasts lay; they would eventually run out of food, and there was nothing to be found in the gorges that wasn’t already dead.

There weren’t many words exchanged for the days that followed. Whenever Bard woke, Thranduil asked him how he felt, gave him food and water, before he went back to sleep.

In the end, Thranduil found himself both relieved and sad for the silence; he’d grown used to his conversations with Bard, however short they were sometimes, but he had much to dwell on on his own.

It had hit Thranduil, and hard; he’d known for a while, of course, without ever admitting it to himself, but. He didn’t just worry about Bard, he’d admitted to that weeks ago; Thranduil cared about him. Before, he’d worry about Bard like he’d worry when a child fell as they ran, but did not care when they scratched their knees. But when Thranduil had seen Bard there on the cold rock, struggling under the jaw and claws of the beast, he’d been afraid. 

It hurt, too, to see Bard like this. The first days reminded him of the hours he’d spent by his wife's death bed. He hadn’t known any medicine, back then. Even the best doctor he’d found hadn’t been able to do anything, and yet, he’d still found a way to blame himself and his money for not being able to do more.

For a time he’d thought he was as much to blame as the Pack for her death—even today, Thranduil sometimes believed it.

Thranduil buried his head in his hands. He didn’t cry, nor weep, but a lonely, silent tear crashed on the ground, the pressure over his chest a heavy one.

On the fifth day, Thranduil eventually stopped worrying, or at the very least, kept his worry low; with no fever, no sign of infection, and Thranduil’s constant attention, the risk of complications were possible, but fairly diminished. Bard’s exhaustion was intense, made worse by his status as a Shapeshifter, but not unexpected. 

Thranduil came to believe firmly that Bard would be alright, though he held no illusions; they wouldn’t be back on the road by next week, and it didn’t matter. He couldn’t care any less—if weeks, months were what Bard needed, then Thranduil would wait. 

Eventually the week rolled by, and Bard stayed awake for longer periods of time, which he spent watching Thranduil, and barely spoke a word. Thranduil didn’t think his silence was one of blame or regret, for he recognized the look in Bard’s eyes; like Thranduil, his mind was busy.

Thranduil wondered what Bard thought about, what he was feeling, and he remembered what Bard had said, ‘I thought I was private about my feelings, until I met you.’

He thought that perhaps it was one of those moments when he shouldn’t bottle up everything that he felt—and nor should Bard. 

Taking a deep, quiet breath, Thranduil broke the silence, in a voice low enough not to startle Bard. “I apologize,” he said, and he meant it. He paused. “I should have listened to you. But I wonder—” Another pause, to choose his words. “We should have run when we each got the chance—why didn’t we?”

He thought he knew the answer, his answer, but Thranduil was given none from Bard. At least, not that ninth day.

“We weren't always called Shapeshifters, you know,” Bard said, suddenly. It was midday, and Thranduil's eyes snapped to him; it was the first thing he said since Thranduil had asked his question, the day before. “We weren't always hated.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Thranduil murmured, not because he didn’t want to hear it, but because he didn’t understand.

Bard shook his head slowly, before he met Thranduil's eyes. “A long time ago, people called us Protectors.” A short, light laugh shook him, and Bard winced in pain. “Ironic, isn't it?”

He breathed in sharply, pressing his arm over his now bandaged wounds. 

“Bard,” Thranduil said. He didn't speak Bard's name often, he realized it now. “Rest.”

“They called us Protectors, because that was what we did,” he said, ignoring Thranduil's words. “We were strong, and no one and nothing dared attack towns where one of us lived. And children—children loved us, and we were ready to endure the pain of turning if we could make them smile.”

“You speak as though you were there,” Thranduil said, quietly. 

Bard shook his head again. “I was not. But I know how it felt, because I did it for my children. I would take them deep in the forest, and I would turn and I would watch them play.” His eyes were lost, and his lips formed a broken smile. “Tilda had always loved cats, you know?”

He said nothing for a while, face down as though he was looking at his lap. Thranduil didn't dare breaking the silence.

“You always wondered how I got caught, that is what you said.” Bard was looking at him now, eyes wet at the corners, and Thranduil found no reply. Gently, Bard reached inside of one of his satchels, the one he squeezed from time to time. Out of it he took a worn out doll, showed it to Thranduil. “I protected them. That's all I did. I didn't think. I ran to their aid, even though I knew I might not make it, regardless of whether I saved them or not. Anything, as long as they were safe.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Thranduil asked again, more slowly. There was an unpleasant lump in his throat.

“Do you really have to make me say it?”

Thranduil didn't think it through; he reached out, wiped the tear that had fallen down Bard's cheek. His hand was back on his lap as soon as he had realized what he'd done.

Yet on Bard's face there was no surprise, no shock; nothing but an emotion Thranduil wasn't sure how to describe. Perhaps it was gratefulness, perhaps it was relief, perhaps it was something else entirely. Either way, Thranduil didn't feel like he’d crossed a line. 

“That’s why I didn’t run—why didn’t you?” 

“I couldn’t—I didn’t even think of it.” The words had left Thranduil’s mouth before he could even think of what to answer. That was all he had to say, and there was no need to say more; those words said everything. 

There was yet another short silence, which they spent unable to look away.

“I won’t say you have nothing to blame yourself for,” Bard said then, and from the tone of his voice, Thranduil could hear this was part of an answer he hadn’t asked for, but wanted nonetheless, “but I wouldn’t have made it without you, and—I’m guilty, too. I should have held my ground.”

Thranduil’s brows furrowed, just a little. He wasn’t sure where Bard was going with this. 

“I’ve grown soft,” he said, laughing a little. “I thought that you, my friend, were so infuriating that I’d grow even harder than I had become—but I didn’t.”

Thranduil studied him, saying nothing but thinking much. At last he detached his eyes from Bard. If Bard had anything more to say, he didn’t speak it.

Thranduil didn’t know for how long he kept his eyes away, but later, when he looked back to Bard, he’d fallen asleep, the doll in his hand, laid over his wounds, like a totem that would protect him from harm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I made a new edit/aesthetic for the fic, reblogs are much appreciated! :D](http://evansluke.tumblr.com/post/157239917253/forgotten-roads-bardthranduil-fantasyroad)


	9. The Plains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good Lord I'm so sorry. I had to work on my Big Bang (almost finished it!), I got caught in a new ship, and Iza, my beta, had her own life to deal with, finals and all, so that's why it took so long. I don't know if many of you still care about this fic after such a long break, but if you are, I hope you'll enjoy this new chapter nonetheless! ;w;
> 
> Here's something much lighter after the tenseness of the previous chapter!
> 
> (also, I changed the rating to Teen Up and Audiences, but kept the Graphic Depictions of Violence warning, just in case. The Mature rating just didn't seem to fit that much.)
> 
> As always, many thanks to [Iza](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/works) for the editing!! <3

“No,” Bard said, firmly. “I don’t deserve it.”

Thranduil stared at him, clearly unable to hide his surprise even though, perhaps, Bard’s refusal shouldn’t have come as one.

“I’m offering you what you came for,” Thranduil said, voice perhaps too harsh. He didn’t seem to understand why Bard would throw away such an opportunity. “I’m telling you you can go home, find your children, and you want to keep going?”

“This matters to you,” Bard replied as he packed dry meat and stuffed it in his bag. “This is what you hired me for. So this is exactly what we’re going to do.”

Thranduil was glaring at him, now. He hadn’t ordered anything, Bard knew; merely suggested they’d stop their journey there. He’d said that a ring wasn’t worth losing his life, no matter how important it was to him, and so if Bard wanted to turn back, he wouldn’t oppose it, and would give him his reward.

Bard hoped the look on his face gave the answer Thranduil was waiting for; never, ever would he accept a reward for an uncompleted job. He’d known the risks, and accepted the terms all the same.

Besides, at this point going back would be just as dangerous as completing the journey—better it not be for nothing, after all they’d been through.

Bard was convinced Thranduil knew all that, deep down, and Bard appreciated that he’d asked anyway, even though giving up wasn’t in his nature, just like it wasn’t in Bard’s.

Sometimes Bard thought he’d known Thranduil for years. After spending every day and night of the past months together, it was hard not to. It was a strange feeling; like he knew everything there was to know about Thranduil, but so much was still unsaid.

Three weeks had passed since the attack, and during those weeks, Bard had had more than enough time to put some order in his thoughts.

Some pains could not be spoken, and it had taken much for Bard to speak of his own. As for Thranduil, Bard had often watched him during their time in the cave; when he worried, when he stared at something Bard couldn’t see, and when he took care of his wounds—and all Bard had seen came down to this.

They were different—so very different, and yet so alike.

Who would have known they would come to care for one another? If anyone had told that to Bard, during those first days, he would have laughed at them. He was certain Thranduil would have, too.

Bard thought he understood what was going on, but he wasn’t so sure, and it set a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Only time would tell.

With a nod, Thranduil stood. He seemed to have accepted Bard’s answer, and Bard could tell it both pleased and displeased him. “Let me see your back,” Thranduil said.

Before Bard could reply Thranduil was crouching behind him and lifting the tunic to look at the wound on Bard’s side. Bard didn’t protest, as Thranduil’s help was welcome; he couldn’t check all of it himself.

“We should stay another week”, Thranduil suggested. His fingers trailed close to the future scars. Bard couldn’t see the concern on Thranduil’s face, but knew it’d be there if he turned to face him.

“We can’t,” Bard said, shaking his head. Thranduil was right, staying was what they should do, but Bard refused to be completely out of food when they departed; they couldn’t wait any longer if they wanted the two days separating them from their next step to be comfortable. “I’ll rest in the plains.”

Behind him Thranduil sighed. “I’m sick of this cave anyway.”

Bard snorted. “You and me both,” he said. “I’d rather face another of those beasts than spend one more day in here.”

To that he closed the bag, and got himself up on two feet. He was thankful his legs hadn’t been damaged; that would have been a serious problem.

Carefully he put on the rest of his clothes, including his boots. By the time he was done, Thranduil was waiting by the entrance, eyes darting around in search of anything they might have forgotten. It took him a moment to look away and leave, as if something had happened in this place that they were leaving behind. Bard shared the sentiment, though it felt more like they were taking it all along the way.

A deep intake of breath, and Bard walked into the open air.

Bard blinked in the sunlight. Had he been at the top of his form, they would have been out of the gorges in a couple of hours. Instead it’d take perhaps twice longer. Then, they’d have to walk another day before reaching the plains. In any case, the moment they saw them, Bard would allow himself to breathe just a little better.

It was Thranduil who took the lead, the path to follow being clear enough. Bard didn’t like that Thranduil had to carry both their bags, but he was strong, and the weight on his shoulders didn’t seem to put him under any discomfort.

They walked at a measurable pace, alert to all sounds and careful not to bring any attention to them. It was needless to say that, would they encounter any more trouble, Bard had little hope of making it this time.

Every now and then Thranduil glanced over his shoulder, like he was checking Bard was still following him.

“You know, if I faint, you’ll hear me fall,” Bard said. “Though I’m just an old sack of bones, so perhaps you won’t.”

He was met with a glare. “If that were to happen, I’ll be glad to leave you there like I should have the first time,” Thranduil flat out said, looking back ahead.

Bard closed his arm over his side as a light laugh shook him. He accelerated his pace, just enough to join Thranduil and walk beside him. Thranduil didn’t have time to hide the small, amused smile on his lips, and though it disappeared quickly, it remained in his eyes. Bard liked the look of it.

“How are you feeling?”

Thranduil raised an eyebrow at him. “I should be the one asking you that.”

“You have, believe me—but you’re not answering the question.”

“I’m fine,” Thranduil said. “And glad you didn’t lose your questionable sense of humor.”

“Now I should be the one saying that.”

A smile tugged at Thranduil’s lips again.

“Tell me if you need to rest.”

Bard frowned. “When did we switch roles?”

“When you almost died and we spent three weeks in a cave.”

Bard shrugged, which he regretted for the rush of pain that shot through his upper back. “Sounds fair,” he said, and Thranduil rolled his eyes in mock annoyance. He hadn’t done that in a long time.

Bard knew Thranduil well enough by now to be able to tell there was still some form of guilt lingering inside him, despite talking about the subject.

Bard had made it clear; the important thing was that they had made it, and though it might have not happened had they taken the tunnel, they could have encountered other threats. 

At least, the strangers who’d been following them had lost their trail. 

At least, it was only a few more scars on an already scarred body. 

At least, apart from cuts and bruises, Thranduil had made it out intact.

Thranduil seemed to have accepted all that, but sometimes, Bard felt there was something stopping Thranduil from completely throwing his guilt away.

Bard understood; he hadn’t been directly responsible for Mira’s death, for being sent away from his children, but the grip of guilt still sometimes squeezed his heart.

They did rest for an hour in the early afternoon, when they’d reached the end of the gorges, and saw the road leading to the plains spread ahead of them, hidden by the mist. Ahead, where grass was progressively growing again.

Bard had never thought he’d ever miss green so much.

It was night when they stopped again. The breath Bard took was a deep one, and he smelled in hard, the fragrances of the plains already in the air. They wouldn’t reach them until tomorrow by midday, but Bard was eager.

The nights in the gorges had been quiet, but uncomfortable; the prospect of sleeping on the grass was almost a dreamy one. Besides, Bard had loved the plains, the rare times he’d crossed them. He felt oddly enthusiastic at the idea of showing Thranduil the place for the first time. Bard hadn’t felt that when he’d taken Thranduil through the dwarf dragons’ forest, though it was his favourite place in the land—apart from wherever his children were, of course.

Much had changed since then. Thranduil wasn’t just the man hiring his services anymore, though back then Bard had already started to see something about this Lord risking so much for a jewel. At the thought of Thranduil’s ring, Bard’s hand found his. Thankfully, it was still around his neck, warm against his skin. 

 

When the next day found them at the border of the plains, the sun shining down on them, soft and warm, Bard couldn’t help the corner of his mouth from slightly turning upwards.

The plains could remind one of the lowlands, but they were welcoming, instead; high grass spread as far as their eyes could see, patches of sunflowers smiling to the sun here and there, and a light breeze that made their hair dance in the wind. 

Bard closed his eyes, and took that deep, relieved breath he’d been waiting for.

Then, opening his eyes again, Bard was met with the sight of Thranduil, standing tall and proud, something regal about his stature, gaze trailing over the plains, some kind of peace written over his face. Looking like that, Bard thought he belonged on a throne of flowers, with a crown upon his head. 

Bard brushed Thranduil’s hand from the tip of his fingers. “Come,” he said, before heading down the hill and towards the grass. It was almost as tall as they were. 

If the scars forming on his body didn’t remind Bard of their presence, he would have forgotten all about them. The contrast between the plains and the gorges was unmissable, so strong they could have thought themselves in another world entirely. 

“If you see berries, pick them,” Bard said over his shoulder. In a second Thranduil was next to him. “You won’t find anything here we can’t eat.”

They spent the day like this; storing as many varieties of berries as they could put their hands on into the bags, searching streams of water hidden between flowers and grass.

They lay down amongst it all when the evening came. All was quiet, their stomachs were filled, and so were the waterskins, but a hint of worry showed on Thranduil’s expression nonetheless. Bard thought he might know what troubled him. 

“Remember the first forest we went through?” he said, quietly.

Thranduil blinked several times. He nodded. “Top of the food chain,” he said. 

Bard nodded back. “Better; all creatures here are no danger to us. There’s no need to worry.”

“What about people?”

“I don’t think rumours have followed me here. Only quiet people live in this area,” Bard replied, trying to lay his hands behind his head, but the stretch of his side and neck’s muscles made it painful. “Most are good hearted. They do not care for monster hunting and bloodshed. Speaking of which—”

“Good people, or monster hunting and bloodshed?” Thranduil interrupted, frowning.

Bard raised both eyebrows at him. “Good people. The next village is a few days away. I know someone there, who might agree to let us spend a few nights, but it means we’ll have to make a small detour.”

“We need proper food. And proper cleaning up,” Thranduil said, screwing his nose. “If you think it’s necessary, it sounds good enough to me.”

“He’s got a bathtub.”

“We’re going.”

Bard smiled to himself as he looked away from Thranduil to stare up at the ever clearer starry sky.

Thranduil had been greatly caring, in the cave. On the first days, when Bard had been too weak to do it himself, Thranduil had checked on his wounds, helped him drink, and helped him stay clean. Thranduil hadn’t protested, nor complained.

There had been something intimate in Thranduil washing his hair, cleaning his feet of dirt, his body of sweat. Bard hadn’t had the force to mind. Then, he’d realized he hadn’t had the will, either.

After all this time spent in each other’s constant company, there was little they were ashamed to share. They’d seen it all. It wasn’t like their bodies, habits and reactions held any more surprises.

Thranduil had done all that he could to make sure Bard would be alright. It was strange to think about it; the resolve Thranduil had put into keeping him alive. The flash of hurt and fear in his eyes when Bard coughed out his pain.

If anything, their time in the cave had made Bard realize one thing: he was ready to put his life in Thranduil’s hands. And, if there had been a hint of doubt in him before, deep down and unnoticed, it wasn’t there anymore.

“I thanked you for saving my life,” Bard said then. “I didn’t thank you for everything else.”

Thranduil didn’t answer immediately, but Bard knew he was awake from the way he breathed—calmly, steadily, but not quite yet as though his body forgot the world around him. 

Eventually Thranduil said, “You would have done the same for me.”

“Aye,” Bard murmured. “I would have.” 

He would have, even if his chance to see his children again hadn’t hung in the balance. Perhaps that was the most comforting thing: this knowledge that after so much time spent in loneliness, they had found in each other someone who cared about their well being. Someone who wanted them to see the end of all this, as much as they did. 

Someone who cared and understood, without shame nor pity; with only this wish to go forward, together. 

“That’s not all,” Bard added, voice still quiet. “With every step we take I feel closer to my children.” He paused. “I feel closer to who I once was—I didn’t think that would ever happen.”

“Isn’t it too soon to thank me?” Thranduil asked, just as quietly. 

“No.” Bard shook his head. “I was scared of hope—I’m glad you’ve given some back to me.”

“You know, don’t you?” 

“Know what?”

“You know that whatever happens, I will help you.”

Bard’s eyes didn’t leave the stars. He did know. He’d known for a while now, that Thranduil would not go back on his word. Then, over the past weeks, he’d understood that even if the quest failed, Thranduil still wouldn’t deny him the reward, even if he didn’t deserve it.

“I do,” Bard said. There was a short silence, before he said, “I’d help you, too.”

Nothing more was exchanged after that, but the air was light, the insects sang, and Bard found it easy to be claimed by dreams.

 

Three days later, Bard was woken up just before dawn. 

Bard grunted, blinking several times until his eye adjusted to his surroundings. Thranduil was sat next to him, legs crossed and hands on his knees. He was looking with some amusement at creatures, passing right between the two of them. 

Big snails the size of cats slided through the grass in a line of light. Their shells were marked with a swirling glow. When the sun would rise, they would stop glowing, but would keep going forward. 

“I know those,” Thranduil said. Unlike Bard’s, his voice wasn’t drowsy from sleep. “Shepherd snails?” 

“Incredible. I’d forgotten it was this time of the year.” Bard sat up, promptly starting to pack. “We should follow them—they cross the village we’re going to.”

Thranduil followed Bard’s movement, taking his time to get ready—given the snails’ pace, they were in no rush to get going.

“They’re the reason the grass is so tall in the plains,” Bard explained, out of habit. “It’s their last and only stop before getting to the sea—but you’ve seen them before?”

“Yes,” Thranduil said. “They leave the sea near one of my father’s properties. I was just a child, and I don’t remember much—but I remember them.”

“They make quite an impression, don’t they,” Bard said, more to himself than Thranduil. The line of snails that seemed to never end was quite an unusual sight, even in a world such as theirs. Like the dwarf dragons in the forest, they provoked wonder; and one could do with a little bit of wonder, when going through dark times. 

They ate berries along the way, walking alongside the animals across the plains. They weren’t the only one following the snails; birds of many colours flew over their heads, finding their way to the sea by doing so, and sometimes six-legged cats snapped a snail from the line before disappearing where they’d come from. 

At the end of the day, they stopped to flatten some grass near a stream the snails crossed, carefully made a fire, and cooked eggs Thranduil had found on a forgotten, empty shell. 

With the next morning came a light drizzle, soft on their skin and pleasantly refreshing. The snails’ speed saw itself growing thanks to it, but Bard and Thranduil’s stayed the same to save Bard’s strength, which could diminish under sudden throbs of pain. At the very least, it had been kinder with each day that had passed.

The snails were utterly undisturbed by men’s and creatures’ presence alike; they went on their way as though the others weren’t there, focused on their goal. 

Bard often wished his travels could be as peaceful as theirs. 

The plains themselves did wonders for Bard’s mood, and, from what Bard could see, for Thranduil’s as well. It did them good to travel someplace quiet, where the weather was kind and the creatures peaceful. Even the colours had their importance; here there was blue and white above, yellow and green below, far from the sad tones of the gorges. 

Despite the area, Bard insisted they stay careful; the men from Rivendell might have lost their trail weeks ago, but they could still find it again, one day or another. Though he was relaxed, remembering complete peace wasn’t theirs yet always put him under a light, though lingering, pressure. 

When an unusual sound found Bard’s ears, his reaction was immediate.

At the same time, both he and Thranduil froze, fixing the trail of animals.

“Did you hear that?” Thranduil whispered, and Bard confirmed he did with a nod.

They heard the sound again, closer now, as though it was following something going in their direction. Neither of them stiffened, nor took out their weapons, and Bard didn’t feel the cold rush of anticipation run down his back, for it wasn’t just any sound; it was a child’s laugh, like one made when playing on their own, or hugging a pet to their chest.

They held their breath nonetheless, unsure of what to do; beasts and men were one thing, children were another. It wasn’t something they’d expected to encounter outside of towns and villages.

Now, perhaps it wasn’t surprising, as the village was perhaps less than an hour away, and the land of no harm. 

At last, the grass moved, and from it, a young boy emerged, all dark curls and big, blue eyes. 

“Oh, hello,” Thranduil said. His voice was softer than Bard had ever heard it before. 

The newcomer had frozen, eyes wide as cups. He looked at Bard for a moment, before his gaze shifted to Thranduil, and didn’t leave him. In his hands he held a smaller snail, no bigger than a kitten. 

“Hello,” he said back.

“Wait—I know this little guy,” Bard murmured. 

Bard crouched, putting his arms on his knees. “Hello there,” he said, gently. “It’s Frodo, right? I remember you.” 

Frodo stared at him, a small line marking his forehead. It took a moment to disappear; after all, it’d been three years since Bard had last saw him. 

“You’re Bard,” he said, then pointed to Thranduil, a little shyly, and asked, “Who’s that?”

“It’s my friend, Thranduil,” Bard replied. “We’re here to see your uncle. Do you mind showing us the way?”

Frodo stared at Thranduil some more, until his face broke into a toothy smile. “Sure,” he exclaimed, walking towards them to hand Bard his snail, and grabbed their cloaks. 

Amused, they let Frodo guide them to the village, listening to him talk about the snails and how his uncle needed one to feed the earth of his garden and grow healthy vegetables.

As much as Bard’s spirits were light, he instinctively closed off the closer they got to the small houses; Bag End, as it was called, and though it might be quiet and peaceful, Bard had had bad surprises too many times over the years. He’d been reassuring when Thranduil had asked, but doubt wasn’t easily shaken off. Few were the people Bard trusted, fewer were the places fear left his mind unburdened. 

Despite himself he stiffened, seeing nothing but the rare people crossing their path, forgetting the trail of snails, and exchanging no more words with Thranduil or Frodo until they stopped before a green oak door.

Only when Frodo knocked did the tension in Bard’s shoulders lessen, and he noticed the light furrow of Thranduil’s brows. Bard brushed off his worry with a brief shake of his head. 

At that moment the door opened on a small man, wearing fancy, though comfortable, clothes. He was barefoot, and his hair was a curly mess, much like his nephew’s. 

His eyes widened in surprise when he saw the visitors, but his lips quickly formed a smile. Bard returned it with a light bow of his head.

“Bard!” he exclaimed, only keeping his hand to himself because Bard’s were busy. “How long has it been?”

Ruffling Frodo’s hair, Bilbo thanked the boy for his help. Bard gave Frodo his snail back, and the boy ran off the side of the house. 

“Good to see you, Bilbo,” Bard said. “This is Thranduil. Thranduil, this is Bilbo.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Thranduil said, extending his hand. Clearly pleased, Bilbo shook it with a nod. 

“The pleasure is all mine,” he replied, stuffing his hand in his pocket and taking out a watch, which he gave a quick glance to before putting it back. 

Bilbo then looked at Bard from head to toe, a line marking his forehead.

“You look awful,” Bilbo said then, laying a worried gaze on him. “I hope this isn’t going to become an habit of yours.”

“An habit?” Thranduil inquired, brows furrowing more. 

“Last time Bard showed up on my doorstep, I thought he was going to die on me.” He pointed to the scar on Bard’s face. “He was lucky that one had healed alright. The others he got on his way here hadn’t. I owed him one, so I fixed him up over—was it two months? Three?”

“One, but I stayed two more,” Bard confirmed. 

“You’re a Healer?” Thranduil interrupted. 

Bilbo nodded. “I don’t have much work to do here, but Bard was enough for a lifetime.”

“You’re exaggerating.” 

“Oh, am I?” 

“It wasn’t that bad.”

Bilbo humphed, not insisting but sending Thranduil a look. Bard knew what that look meant: ‘you had to put up with this too, haven’t you?’ 

Given the look Thranduil sent back, his answer was ‘yes.’

“Bilbo, can we—”

“Of course,” Bilbo cut off. “And no, you don’t have to pay me back anything—don’t make that face. You’re always welcome here.”

“Thank you,” Bard said, and gave Bilbo’s shoulder a quick, light squeeze. 

“Thank you, sir,” Thranduil repeated. 

“Come on, get in before all the neighbourhood knows you’re back,” Bilbo said after another nod, stepping aside to let them in. 

As soon as the door was closed behind them, Bard’s shoulders relaxed. The place was no different than it had been three years prior. It was simple, and charming, and Bard soon remembered how quickly one came to feel at home here. Sometimes he thought it was one of the reasons he’d stayed so long. 

“You can take the same room as last time,” Bilbo added. He glanced Thranduil’s way. “But I’m afraid there’s still only one bed.”

“It’s alright,” Thranduil said. Standing a step behind Thranduil, Bard glared; unlike him, Thranduil couldn’t know the bed was just large enough for two.

They had slept close more nights than Bard could count, back to back or side by side, but there was something different about sharing a bed. Bard was undeterred by the prospect, and so seemed Thranduil as well. 

Bilbo nodded, as though it perhaps wasn’t that much of a surprise. “And the bathroom is at your disposition,” he said, looking defeated as he followed the path of dirt their shoes had left behind them. “I’d appreciate it if you could use it and give me your clothes to wash before sitting anywhere—I’ve just finished cleaning up.”

“We can wash them ourselves, Bilbo,” said Bard.

“Please, I don’t have any clothes your size to give you, and I don’t want to see you go around naked in this house,” Bilbo protested. “Rest. I’ll get dinner to your room, and I’ll see you both in the morning.”

Bard knew better than to argue with Bilbo, and so after another thanks, he gestured to Thranduil with a move of his head. Bard lead him through the house and to a cosy room at the far end of it. Inside it, a door lead to a private bathroom. 

Thranduil stood in the middle of the room, looking at his surroundings. There was the bed, a wardrobe, and a small desk. Simple, but comfortable. Bard found the picture an amusing one; the ceiling was low here, and it made Thranduil seem out of place. Bard knew it was his own case as well, but Thranduil made quite a sight in Bilbo’s home.

They took off their cloaks, put their bags by the bed. Bard sent Thranduil an interrogative look.

“Wash yourself first,” Thranduil said, walking back towards the door. “I’d like to have a word with our host.”

Bard shrugged. It mattered little to him, though the prospect of being alone in the bedroom wasn’t a pleasant one; last time he’d been here, things had been much different, but even today the memories stayed the same. 

As Thranduil left the room, Bard entered the bathroom. He got rid of his clothes and quickly cleaned himself up, glad for the soap and the clean water, which turned brown with dried blood.

Once done, he left the clothes by the door with their cloaks, knowing Thranduil would gather them all once he was done, and leave them outside for Bilbo to take.

There would be much explaining to do in the morning; Bard knew the only reason Bilbo didn’t pressure him into it was because they were no strangers to each other, and, Bard had to admit, he felt he needed some rest. 

Breathing in, Bard draped himself in a blanket found in the wardrobe, lay on the bed, and, forgetting dinner, sighed contentedly, letting himself fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some things are going to happen in the next chapters, brace yourselves ;)
> 
> To be honest, we're getting close to the end! If everything goes as planned, this story should end with twelve chapters. :) 
> 
> Until then, I'm going to rely a lot on you guys to find the motivation to keep going. I'm struggling with long fics lately, and writing in general, and though I manage to produce stuff, it doesn't come as easily as it used to. So please, I need to know if all the time I put into my fic(s) is worth it and appreciated. Even if it'd be your first time commenting, please let me know if you're still with me! I'm not asking for a novel (though I wouldn't mind :p) but merely for a word or two! Kudos and hits are only numbers, they don't say anything. They don't have a voice. I'm sorry for asking once more, but after a three months break, I'm kinda freaked out you're all gone. ;w;
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, as always! <3


	10. Bag End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another quieter chapter! They deserved a little break, didn't they.
> 
> Many many thanks to my wonderful friend and beta [Iza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13) for the editing! <3
> 
> This is pure timing coincidence, but if you read this today, happy birthday [Ruwin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ruwin)!! :D and thanks for the little idea I included in this chapter ;)

A ray of sunshine that had found its way through the room’s curtains woke Thranduil in the early morning. 

Next to him, Bard was having a bad dream; Thranduil had slept near him long enough to be able to tell. Quickened breath, hands clenching and unclenching, and murmured words Thranduil couldn’t quite make out. Sometimes, one of Bard’s children’s names was spoken clear and loud enough to be understood. 

Thranduil rolled on his side, propping his head up on his hand. There wasn’t much he could do, but he’d learned not to touch Bard’s shoulder first, unless he wished to see his wrist grabbed in a tight grasp, and perhaps see his throat under the pressure of a blade. 

All he could do was watch, wait for it to pass, and hope Bard wouldn’t be too shaken when he awoke. It had only happened twice over the past few months, and each time it had left Bard in the mood of a sad, broken man. 

Even if Thranduil hadn’t cared the first time, he couldn’t bring himself to be heartless, now. How could he wish it upon anyone, to see their biggest fears come to life in their dreams?

When, minutes later, Bard opened his eyes after a short, sharp intake of breath, Thranduil was relieved to see he didn’t seem too disturbed; merely tired, his mind clearly still lingering in the fog of his dreams.

“We’re at Bilbo’s,” Thranduil said, quietly. “It’s still early. Go back to sleep.”

A sleepy nod, and Bard closed his eyes again, shifting position so he would lay on his side, bare back turned on Thranduil.

Thranduil’s eyes followed the path of Bard’s scars; a messy scatter of them, really. By now, Thranduil thought he knew them all by heart. Back in the cave, he’d had to take care of the new wound passing by the back of his shoulder many times. Bard had usually fallen asleep while he did so, and Thranduil had found himself counting the scars there, wondering what the exact story behind each of them was.

A quiet laugh came tumbling out of him when Bard’s stomach rumbled, taking him out of his thoughts. Thranduil hadn’t been surprised to find Bard asleep when he’d come back to their room the night before. In the end, he’d eaten in Bilbo and Frodo’s company, proceeded to explain the purpose of their journey, and retold most of what they’d been through. 

Frodo had enjoyed it as a story, speaking up from time to time to ask a question, which Thranduil each time answered with, “Why don’t you ask Bard when he wakes up? He’ll be happy to tell you.” 

After all, it wasn’t only Thranduil’s story to tell.

As for Bilbo, he’d listened religiously, and it’d seemed like he was taken back to old days. Later, he admitted having taken part in an adventure of his own, many years ago, which had involved Bard and his famous dragon-slaying.

Before dinner, Thranduil had asked if Bilbo could check on Bard in the morning, knowing that Bard would deny any attention he might need before Bilbo could even agree. 

All throughout dinner, there had been something different about that feeling his soothsaying talents produced when meeting Bilbo’s eyes. He'd gotten used to the way Bard's talents felt under scrutiny of his soothsaying, and so it was easier to notice that Bilbo's wasn't the same. He hadn't noticed any such differences in Rivendell, though then again that could be because he'd never spent more than a few seconds with other gifted people. 

Then, he’d gone back to their room, taken off his clothes, and slipped under the sheets. 

Overall, Thranduil liked it here already. The only downside was Thranduil’s inability to control his powers; generations after generations had touched the objects and doorknobs of the house, filling them with memories Thranduil couldn’t always escape. 

With a sigh, Thranduil got out of bed. He went to pick up their clothes, waiting by the door as promised, and put them on the table by the window. Then, he sat back down on the bed, naked, and gathered some of the blanket over his lap. 

When, later, he looked up at Bard again, Bard was silently watching him. He’d rolled on his other side without Thranduil noticing, too busy in his thoughts to pay any attention to his surroundings. Here, he didn’t need to. 

Thranduil could hear activity outside their room: a child laughing, running along the hall, back and forth. From deeper inside the house, Bilbo’s voice rose, calling for Frodo to get his morning bath. 

“It’s strange, isn’t it?” Thranduil mused aloud. “Not being just the two of us?”

Bard merely yawned in answer, stretching his arms above his head before letting them rest flat on his chest.

“There’s noise, but—” Thranduil continued. “How can it feel so quiet?”

“Because we’re safe here, I suppose,” Bard replied in a rough voice, still drowsy from sleep. 

Thranduil hummed. “Nothing to worry about.”

Bard nodded, putting his arms crossed behind his head with a contented sigh. “Aye,” he said, before adding, “The past weeks have been quiet, but this is different, isn’t it?”

“Different how?”

“We haven’t had anything to worry about since we reached the plains. Perhaps even since you patched me up in that cursed cave. But this is—this feels like being home. It isn’t, of course, but—”

“I worried,” Thranduil interrupted. He’d been stuck on Bard’s words about the cave. “I worried all the time.” 

Bard glanced at him. He seemed surprised to hear those words come out of Thranduil’s mouth. Thranduil was surprised, too. It was no secret to the both of them that Thranduil had been worried sick wondering if Bard would make it, or if an infection would develop and spread before taking his life. But he had never voiced it, at least never as clearly as he had now. 

“This isn’t what I meant,” Bard said, his hand unconsciously finding his neck and shoulder where the scars were still fresh. He opened his mouth to say something else, only to close it again. 

For a moment neither of them spoke, and Thranduil found it better to change the subject; he wouldn’t know what else to say, anyway. He’d already said too much that he couldn’t completely explain, himself. “There’s something I’ve been wondering.”

“Yes?”

Thranduil faced Bard. He was looking up at him, his face at peace, and the heaving of his chest slow and steady. “The other day, you said this place was good to you. That rumours didn’t follow you here, that the people of this area meant you no harm. Why didn’t you stay? Why risk your life on the other side of the mountains?”

“There hasn’t been a Shapeshifter around here in years,” Bard answered. “I was going to bring troubles to this place. I couldn’t break its peace.”

“Is that why you left?” 

Bard breathed in, moving his arms to his chest. He clasped his hands together, and looked down to them. “There are many children, here. I turned for them in the plains, away from ill-disposed eyes. It felt like I could be what I was, without shame.” Bard cracked a smile, though he still didn’t look up. “Children, they know how to keep a secret, if you turn it into a game.”

“Did something go wrong?”

“No, not exactly. If anything, I think the only thing I broke was their hearts.” Bard sighed, running a hand through his hair. “A traveller came along. He had many stories to tell—including a part of mine. The children were not stupid. They understood he might be talking about me.”

“Made it harder for them to keep the secret.”

Bard nodded. “I left the next morning, without a word to anyone but Bilbo and Frodo,” he said. “I hadn’t meant to stay for much longer, anyway.”

“Frodo recognized you,” Thranduil pointed out. “What if they do, too?”

“Yes, and he never knew about my nature. He was too young to follow me in the plains, and yet, he remembered me. That’s why I’m not going to leave this house. I’m sorry to leave managing the supplies to you again. There’s not much risk, but we better not raise attention.”

Thranduil agreed with a nod of his head. They fell back into silence, Bard closing his eyes and drowsing while Thranduil rose to open the curtains slightly. The window had a view of Bilbo’s garden, colourful and already filled with growing fruits and vegetables.

He stood there for a moment, letting the sun fall on his face and taking in the quiet a while longer. 

Bard was sharing much with him, and Thranduil felt as though he didn’t say enough of himself in return. It didn’t seem fair. 

Perhaps it would be time, soon, to let him know more. However, Thranduil wasn’t sure how.

Eventually, Thranduil felt Bard’s gaze on his lower back. Instinctively, he stiffened, though he was quick to realize Bard must have been looking at his old scar. 

Closing the blanket higher around his waist, Thranduil turned to face Bard, raising an eyebrow at him. 

Bard looked up at him. His head was slightly tilted to the side, and there was a shadow of embarrassment upon his features, as though he had felt Thranduil's discomfort before it evaporated. 

“I apologize,” he said at once. “I’ve seen it before, but I shouldn't have stared. It was inappropriate.”

“No, it's alright,” Thranduil replied, shaking his head. He didn't know how to put it into words, nor did he know if it was something worth talking about. It was another kind of personal talk entirely. “I figured you were looking at the scar. Childhood accident.”

Bard nodded, though he seemed to be thinking about something else. Bard sat there on the bed and Thranduil stayed up for a moment, all in silence.

“I've never felt that... hunger, for anyone,” Bard eventually said, as if it was a common subject of conversation, though his voice was measured. “It has never appealed to me, either.”

Thranduil’s brows furrowed. “Never?”

“Never.”

Thranduil merely stared. He had met many people, before his wife passed. But never had he met someone who felt the way he did. Knowing so suddenly that he wasn’t alone was strange, but also soothing, and the more he thought about it, the more he realized that perhaps, he’d known since the lake near Rivendell. 

Breathing in deep, Thranduil sat on the edge of the bed.

“Why would you tell me that?” he asked. 

“I don’t know,” Bard said. “I felt I could tell you. I wanted to.”

There was another silence, Thranduil twirling a lock of hair between his fingers before letting his hand fall on his lap again. 

“I’m like you.”

That made Bard pause. Thranduil could almost hear him blinking in confusion. Instead, he heard, “What?”

“I’m like you,” Thranduil repeated. “I don’t know what that ‘hunger,’ as you call it, feels like, and I don’t care to know.” He faced Bard again, and on Bard’s face there was the dawn of understanding, mouth slightly agape in surprise. “You thought I merely didn’t like people looking at me too closely, didn’t you?” 

Bard slowly nodded. “I’d never met someone like me.”

“Well,” Thranduil said, his lips forming an half smile, “now we have.”

A low chuckle came rumbling out of Bard, and he sat up on the bed, rolling his shoulders, the blanket closed over them. Then, he stood, going for his folded clothes on the small table by the window. 

He kept shaking his head, eyes half closed and smiling to himself.

He was done putting his pants on when Thranduil said, “Wait, you don’t want to put the rest on just yet.”

Bard’s brows furrowed, and he stopped in his motion.

Before he could ask why, a knock was heard on the door, and after Thranduil voiced the authorization to enter, it opened on Bilbo, holding two cups of tea. 

“Good morning,” he said, smiling at the both of them. “How was your night?”

“Remedial,” Thranduil replied. 

Once the cups of tea were set on the table next to their clothes, Bilbo clasped his hands together. “So, Bard,” he said. “Let me see those wounds.”

“I really don’t think that’s necessary,” Bard tried, but Bilbo shook his finger at him. 

Bilbo smiled. “Let me be the judge of that.”

Bard groaned, but sat on the chair Bilbo pointed him to. 

Thranduil sat on the edge of the bed as Bilbo checked Bard’s injuries. He trailed his fingers over the ruined, healing skin, a line of concentration on his forehead. 

Sometimes he put the palm of his hand over some part of the wound, making Bard visibly shiver, and each time Bilbo drew it back with a short, satisfied nod of his head, making Thranduil feel a little less tense.

When Bilbo went around Bard to check the wounds on his back, Bard sent Thranduil a reassuring look.

“Well,” Bilbo said, breaking the silence as he took Bard’s tunic from the table and handed it to him. “It’s all healing pretty well—there will be scars, of course, but you must be used to it at this point.”

Bard laughed, half-heartedly. “You could say that.”

“Good work, Thranduil,” Bilbo added. 

Thranduil merely bowed his head in answer. He didn’t take any pride in his handywork, knowing he was partly responsible for the damage in the first place. 

“Come on,” Bilbo said then. “Breakfast’s ready.”

 

Later that day, Thranduil found Bard sitting on a bench overlooking Bilbo’s rather impressive garden, Frodo and his snail sitting on his lap and listening attently. Both their hands were covered in paint, and on the snail’s shell, Frodo’s name was written in bright letters. 

When Thranduil came to sit by their side and asked what it was for, Frodo explained that this way, if the snail escaped the garden, villagers would be able to know where to bring it back. 

And, of course, it was just fun. 

After that, Bard resumed his stories, and Thranduil had seen so much these past months that he couldn’t always tell whether they were real, or completely made up by the imagination of a father who’d had years to practice telling tales to children. 

In the end, Thranduil spent the remainder of the afternoon there, listening to Bard and finding himself speaking up and making Frodo’s eyes grow even wider at the details he provided to the stories. 

The next few days were much the same, and no less restful. With each new day, Bard’s strength came more fully back to him, and with Bilbo’s care, his injuries soon stopped paining him completely. 

Two days before their departure, and a week after they’d arrived, Bilbo gasped at dinner, his face lighting up in realization.

Both Bard and Thranduil looked curiously at him, but Bilbo seemed to go back into thinking, and Thranduil went back to his plate. 

When he looked up again, Bilbo was laying curious eyes on him. Thranduil raised an eyebrow, an invitation to speak up on whatever was crossing his mind. 

“You know, you reminded me of someone. I just couldn’t put my finger on it,” Bilbo said. “But now, I remember.”

Thranduil’s brows furrowed. “How so?” 

“A young man and his friends.” Thranduil thought he’d stop breathing, and he caught Bard’s head shooting up as he stopped in the action of getting his fork to his mouth, eyebrows raised in both surprise and interest. “He looked very much like you.”

“Legolas,” Thranduil breathed. He turned to face Bilbo fully. “When was it?”

“Oh, perhaps a month ago,” Bilbo said, tilting his head slightly to the side. “The three of them seemed in good shape. They stayed for a little while before going back on the road.”

“Do you know where they were going?” Bard asked. 

“They talked about going back to Rivendell through the tunnel in the mountains, and then settling there for a few weeks, perhaps a few months.”

Bard turned to Thranduil, and seemed perhaps as relieved by the news as Thranduil was. 

Legolas was alright. If Thranduil had needed anything to see his determination grow all the more, it was this. Perhaps, if there were time, they could take a few days on their way back to look for him in Rivendell.

Perhaps, he would be given the chance to apologize; tell his son he loved him, and always had.

This was good news, but it still set an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach; he was glad that Legolas was enjoying the world in, Thranduil hoped, good company, but guilt still plagued him for being the cause of his son’s departure. 

Though Bilbo tried to strike up conversation again, Thranduil was already too far deep in his thoughts. He finished his dinner without another word, without sparing anyone at the table a glance.

“Excuse me,” Thranduil said when he was done, with a nod his head. He took his empty plate to the kitchen, before he went to his and Bard’s room, and lay on the bed.

Bard was so quiet that Thranduil barely heard him coming in. But he felt the mattress sink, and heard the bed creak under his weight.

Thranduil felt Bard’s hand on his shoulder, palm warm and skin rough and strangely comforting. 

“Are you alright?” Bard said in a hushed voice. When Thranduil didn’t answer, he added, “I know what you’re thinking, but I believe it’s good for him. Maybe for the both of you, even.”

“What if something happens to him?” Thranduil says, voicing those recurring worries for the first time. “It’d be my fault.” 

“No, no it wouldn’t,” Bard replied. His hand squeezed Thranduil’s shoulder. “Weren’t you his age, once? There always comes a time when our kids need their space.”

“There’s needing space, and running away into the wild with friends you barely know.”

A chuckle escaped Bard. “Well, they clearly must be good friends, now. He’s not alone. You said yourself you knew that made it safer. And now, you have confirmation he’s alright. What truly troubles you?”

Thranduil turned on his back to look at Bard. He was sitting next to him, the candle Thranduil had lit forming shadows on his face, making the scar across it stand out all the more. 

Bard was right. Legolas had been trained and raised well. He wasn’t alone, he was doing fine. Without doubt, there was no need to worry as he had until now. Thranduil knew that—but it was always easier to linger on old worries than to welcome new ones. 

And, at the realization he might see Legolas again sooner than he’d thought, Thranduil hadn’t been able to stop these new thoughts from coming and burdening him. 

“I didn’t say goodbye. We didn’t part on good terms, Legolas and I. I’m afraid he will never forgive me,” he said, quietly. “That he won’t even look at me.” 

Bard’s expression turned softer then, and understanding painted itself all over his face.

“You’ve talked much of his childhood, these past months,” Bard said. “No one could doubt your love for him—I’m sure he knows, too.”

“I never showed him I did, when it mattered.”

“Then, next time you see him, you will.” With that Bard flopped on his back, closing his eyes as he heaved out a sigh. There seemed to be much on his mind, but he spoke not of it, and months ago, Thranduil would have thought better not to ask. But, back then, he wouldn’t have shared any of his own ruminations with Bard, anyway. 

“What’s on your mind?”

Bard opened his eyes to glance at him. He seemed to hesitate. 

“I don’t want to make this about myself.”

“I’m the one asking. You won’t.”

Bard closed his eyes again. 

“What you said about being afraid your son won’t even look at you? Ever since you gave me this chance, I’ve never stopped wondering the same,” Bard said, and there was a fragility to his voice Thranduil had rarely heard before. The last time, it’d been in the cave, when he’d talked of golden ages, and the sacrifices he’d made for his children. 

“Your children knew why you left. You kept no secrets from them.”

“I promised I’d come back.” 

“And you will.”

“It’s been so long—four years, now. Will my youngest even remember me?” he breathed. “Look at me. Will she even recognize me?”

Thranduil didn’t know what to say to that; so, instead, like Bard had done for him, he lay his hand upon Bard’s shoulder, and gave it a squeeze. His fingers then went up to Bard’s face, to his scar, which he traced from the tip of his fingers in a way that, perhaps, said more than words ever could.

 

Three days later found them packing their bags while Frodo sat in the middle of the bed. He watched them go about the room, going in and out with clean clothes and supplies, big blue eyes following their every movement.

“Do you really have to leave?” he piped up. 

“Yes, Frodo,” Bard said, gently, in that way he only seemed to have with children. “I’ll come back to visit someday, I promise.”

Frodo pouted, crossing his small arms over his chest. 

“But you tell the best stories!”

Bard laughed and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Don’t tell your uncle that.”

Everything was ready by the time midday rolled around, and the goodbyes by the door had somewhat of a bittersweet taste. There had been something restful and comforting about this place and the warm welcome they’d been given. The time they’d spent here had been precious in its own right—a most welcomed break from the dangers of the wild, that they now had to return to. 

Despite Bard’s protests, Bilbo put a cloth filled with more dried meat, fruits, bread and cheese than Thranduil had already bought at the market in Bard’s hands, insisting they couldn’t possibly have enough. Eventually, they stuffed it all in Thranduil’s bag. 

“Take care of yourself, Bard,” Bilbo said as he shook Bard’s hand. He then nodded to Thranduil. “You too, Thranduil. It’s been lovely meeting you.”

Bard reiterated his thanks, both for the stay and the food, before he picked Frodo and his snail in his arms and carried him until the end of the little path of stones that lead to Bilbo’s door. There he put him on the ground again, ruffling his hair one last time. 

Thranduil turned to Bilbo. “Thank you for everything you’ve done,” he said, and Bilbo only smiled in understanding, waving a short dismissal with his hand.

One last look before Thranduil joined Bard and, together, they walked away without a single glance back.

At the outskirts of the village, Bard stopped next to the line of snails. He looked over the horizon, a hand on the shaft of his dagger, the other on the strap of his bag. He inhaled deeply, and seemed to enjoy the sun falling on his face. 

“Do you know how far your house is from here?” Bard asked, facing him.

Thranduil shook his head. “I couldn’t tell the way, unless we pass by something I can recognize.” He looked at the mountain ahead, brows furrowed in concentration, before turning his attention back to Bard. “But no more than one week, I’d say. There was a lake nearby. Maybe a two days walk from the house.”

Bard thought for a moment, a line of concentration on his forehead, before nodding. “A week, then. We’ll stop there, if you don’t mind.” 

“If you don’t mind the dust, of course.” 

Bard laughed, just a bit. “This is where we part ways with those,” Bard added, ignoring Thranduil’s poor attempt at humor as he pointed to the line of snails. 

The snails disappeared between the yellow grass of the hills between the chain of mountains, and the forest around Erebor. When looking behind them, the end of the line was in sight, just as ahead of them lay the end of their journey. 

A last look to the village below the hill they stood on, and Bard took the first step towards the forest. 

It was the last stretch towards their goal. And then—then, they would go back home. And, once they were home, it would be their turn, too, to say goodbye. 

Thranduil shook the thoughts out of his head. They still had days to go before reaching the stash; months before he’d have to bring Bard to the property he would pick for his children and himself. Dwelling on it now was of no use, and yet, as they progressed in silence and Thranduil could look at Bard from his blind side, Thranduil couldn’t help but dread the time when Bard’s familiar face wouldn’t be by his side anymore. 

It was the first time in almost two weeks they were completely alone—it was strange, how Thranduil found he’d almost been looking forward to it. 

For the second time, Thranduil tried to free his busy thoughts from the heavy anticipation of a return to loneliness. Was there another explanation for how dreadful parting from Bard sounded? How many years had he—had they—spent on his own? 

Was this truly the only reason why he dreaded the end of all this? 

There was a fleeting touch on his shoulder. 

“I may not see you, but I can feel your eyes on me,” Bard said, and despite himself Thranduil smiled. 

Thranduil was thankful Bard didn’t ask what was going through Thranduil’s mind. He wouldn’t have known what to say. Instead, with a light clap to Thranduil’s shoulder, he started walking faster, leaving a low laugh in his wake. 

 

That night, they lay at the border of the forest, under the starry sky, like they had so many times before. They hadn’t talked much, on the way there; merely looked at the landscape and wondered what waited for them ahead. 

Bard had explained there was no bigger concentration of birds in the country than in the forest around Erebor, and they would be of great help in telling whether or not they were in danger, for the birds grew quiet when threat filled the air. 

“The other houses, what are they like?” 

The question took Thranduil by surprise. They’d just finished eating and getting ready for the night, lying back to back like they were used to. He’d thought there would be no more talking for today. 

But he didn’t mind; this was hope talking for Bard, and if Thranduil had learned one thing, it was perhaps that there was no more precious sight than hope in a broken man. 

“They’re much like mine in Bree,” Thranduil eventually replied. “But the land around them is different. Another—”

“You mentioned a house by the sea, once,” Bard interrupted. “Is it one of them?”

Thranduil blinked. “Yes.”

“My children always wanted to see it,” Bard murmured. “The sea. I’d like to see it, too.”

“You’ve never seen it?”

“No, never.”

Bard laughed quietly. Thranduil felt the messy rumbling of it against his back, and he would have laughed too, if there hadn’t been something sad about it. He wondered why Bard had never gone to the shore, over the years he’d spent on his own, and was about to ask when the answer came to him on its own: Bard wanted to see it for the first time with his children by his side. 

Thranduil rolled on his back, then on his other side. Bard had been laying eyes towards stars. He glanced at Thranduil, face serious but laugh still lingering at the corners of his mouth.

“What will you do, once you’re settled?” 

Bard rolled on his side as well, arms folded against his chest. He was silent for a moment, searching Thranduil’s eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I think it’ll be good not to show my face around for a while.”

“You will not visit, then.”

“No, not immediately,” Bard murmured. “I have much to catch up on.”

Thranduil nodded. He understood that—he would have as well, if Legolas ever came home. 

“But after? Will you?”

“Why?” Bard’s expression was unreadable, but soft. “We’re stuck together. I thought you wouldn’t want to see me for a while.”

Thranduil closed his eyes, shaking his head. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps he simply didn’t know whether or not going back to his lonely house would be as easy as he’d thought it would be when he’d first left. Bard might not have known either, he was sure, had he not had his children waiting for him at the end of their journey. 

And, if he’d once thought it would be, he didn’t feel _stuck_ with Bard anymore.

If anything, he would miss it all.

He would miss the nights under the stars, the wonder those incredible places brought upon him. He would miss the curious creatures that sometimes crossed their path, their meals shared by the fire. 

He would miss Bard’s warmth against him, the sound of his voice, the way he was always close, never out of reach.

He would miss _Bard._

Thranduil opened his eyes. Bard was looking at him, his own eyes tired but wide awake. 

Thranduil moved his head forward, slowly, until his lips brushed Bard’s. There was no time to think of what he’d just done; he was just about to draw back when Bard’s hand found his jaw, and their lips brushed again. 

A sharp intake of breath, and Thranduil’s lips pressed against Bard’s. Bard instantly kissed back; it was honest and certain, not a trace of doubt in the way his lips moved and the way his thumb caressed the side of Thranduil’s face.

He thought all air had been taken away from him, drained from his lungs. He gasped for breath, once, eyes closed shut as though he were afraid of what he’d see, would he open them. 

But, he didn’t have to; instead Bard’s lips searched for his again, Bard’s hand now entangling itself in silver hair, caressing the scalp behind his ear, and Thranduil could do nothing but give in, just a while longer. 

He was glad to. 

They broke apart once more, and Thranduil opened his eyes, finding what he needed, right in front of him. 

He found Bard’s eye looking straight at him. 

In it, he saw himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made you wait a while for this didn't I? I'm dying to read your comments!! Incoherent keyboard smashing is perfectly acceptable, by the way :D
> 
> Also, I'd hinted at their asexuality in chapter 5 (and it's been tagged for months :p) so hopefully that little talk didn't come out of nowhere! I've written them as being on the ace spectrum in pretty much all my fics, but I'd never made them have an actual talk about it, so this means a lot to me. I hope it was alright! (I wish I could have used the actual word, but that was not really possible in this AU.)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, I'm so happy you're still on this journey with me! <3
> 
> (We're nearing the end! Three more chapters to go)


	11. Erebor I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one took longer than usual... sorry about that, but at least it's now up! 
> 
> A big thank you to my friend and beta [Iza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13) for the editing! <33

Bard awoke to the sounds of packing. Thranduil sat not far from him, pulling his cloak shut over his shoulders. He looked well rested, perhaps even as much as Bard felt. 

The night before was still very clear in his head. He found that he didn’t regret what he’d done, falling into that kiss that nothing had provoked or could be blamed on; nothing but the intimacy of the moment. Not for one second. Even less so knowing that, surprisingly, it was Thranduil who’d made the first step. 

Yawning, Bard sat up straight, rubbing his eyes with the fingers of one hand, the other giving Thranduil’s shoulder a light tap.

Thranduil turned to face him, promptly handing Bard a piece of bread and some cheese, as though he’d been expecting the moment Bard would wake up. His eyes were kind and uncold, and though it, strangely, didn’t come off as a surprise, it still set a warm feeling in Bard’s chest. 

“Thank you,” he said. “The birds seem a bit quieter today—we shouldn’t take too long to get moving.” Bard glanced at the bags, which were now closed and ready. “I see you’ve already taken care of everything.”

After wishing Bard a good morning as an answer, Thranduil bit into his own food with a nod of his head, and let Bard quickly shake the sleep off himself, and get ready. 

Bard didn’t know whether he should talk about the night before. A part of him didn’t feel the need to—there had been no confusion, no awkwardness in its wake, and no regrets in the morning. Whatever they had, whatever had build up between them, Bard was in no rush to explain it. Besides, they had three months of road back to figure out what this was all about; what they were growing to be to each other—or already were.

But, the other part of him knew by now that, if Thranduil’s behaviour was no different than usual, he might just be keeping his true thoughts to himself. 

“I know what’s on your mind,” Thranduil said then. Bard’s eyes snapped to him, an eyebrow raised in anticipation. 

“Oh, do you?”

“Indeed,” Thranduil replied, and he smirked, just a bit. “Stop thinking so much, and let’s get moving.”

Bard shook his head with a smile to himself, and set the bag over his shoulder. 

Who would have thought that this could have been? 

As Thranduil stood up to stand by his side, Bard rubbed at the hair of his chin. If Bard had to admit it, he didn’t have much of an idea of where he was going. As he’d warned Thranduil months ago, now that they’d reached Erebor’s vicinity, all they could do was hope they’d stumble upon some clue that would lead them to the stash. 

Bard set up a steady pace, Thranduil by his side. 

The stash could be anywhere, but Bard had thought much about it over the past weeks, the closer they’d gotten to the mountain; if he’d been the Pack, he would have dug his hiding place on the other side of the mountain, somewhere at its feet, where the entry would be hidden by the labyrinth of trees and rocks. Or, perhaps, behind the infamous waterfall cascading near the top, which many of those who had ventured into the forest and lost their path had fallen to their death from. 

In consequence, Bard had decided they’d avoid getting into the forest for now—the place was cursed, easy to get lost in. And if anyone were to appear on top of the hills surrounding the forest, he and Thranduil would be able to disappear amongst the darkness of the trees. 

Bard glanced Thranduil’s way as they walked along the line of trees. There was one thing he’d omitted, and perhaps he’d be better not to keep it a secret. 

“Maybe now’s a good time to tell you I’ve never actually stepped into Erebor,” Bard said. 

Thranduil turned on his heels to glare at him. “You mean you have no idea what’s in there?”

“Not much of a clue,” Bard replied with a shake of his head. “I’ve heard some things, like about the birds, but I’ve never experienced it myself. Never been further than the lake you mentioned.”

“Well,” Thranduil said sarcastically, “that promises some surprises.”

“I know there are some of the creatures we’ve crossed paths with, if it can reassure you.”

“I’m not sure I’ll feel much safer if there are those cursed basilisks and chameleon beasts.”

“Didn’t hear of those, thankfully.” Bard briefly put his hand on Thranduil’s shoulder, giving it a light squeeze, like he’d grown used to doing, before letting his hand fall down to do the same to Thranduil’s wrist. “How far into the forest is your house?”

“Not too far. There’s a small path in the woods, leading to a clearing. We’ll find the house there.”

Bard sighed. “A house in Erebor’s forest.” He glanced at the trees; the darkness was uninviting, like a promise of getting lost should one step in too far. Though the part of the forest closest to the lake wasn’t so haunting, Bard couldn’t quite comprehend why a house would be built there, away from everything. 

“Like all my properties but the one you’ve seen, they all belonged to my father, and his father before him,” Thranduil explained. “They always talked like the world used to be kinder.” 

“Do you believe it was?”

“I didn’t, not always,” Thranduil admitted. “I didn’t see how things could have been different. But I changed my mind. I would be a fool not to.”

“What changed your mind?” asked Bard.

Thranduil shrugged—an unusual gesture, coming from him. “You did,” he said, and he added nothing more on the subject, but Bard sensed it wasn’t because he didn’t want to. Instead, it felt more like Thranduil couldn’t quite put words to his thoughts. 

“My father spoke of giant spiders, once,” Thranduil said, not long after. “One got into the house when I was too young to remember, and we never came back since.”

Bard gritted his teeth. He’d heard of giant spiders, too; but people had never been sure of their existence, for few were those who lived to tell the tale—only Shapeshifters had ever gotten away, for spiders wouldn’t go near what was bigger than them if they could avoid it. Hopefully, he and Thranduil wouldn’t have to worry about them. 

“There aren’t only bad things in Erebor, I’m sure,” Bard said in an attempt to reassure himself. “If I’ve learned one thing travelling this world, it’s that there’s always something beautiful amongst everything else.”

Thranduil laughed quietly, a rare, endearing sound, with a soft, almost imperceptible click of his fingers. “There, Bard. That’s what I meant earlier. I saw nothing more than the dark in each new place we stepped in—that was the only things I knew about them. You never stopped proving me wrong.”

“I’ve done nothing but show you around,” Bard protested. “It’s like hope, isn’t it? You think everything’s lost, and then comes a small, glowing dragon, and suddenly you realize everything is perhaps not as terrible as it seemed.”

He paused, looked out to the golden hills before his eyes found Thranduil again, his hair gleaming gold in the sunlight.

“Perhaps there’s still something good in the world.”

 

At night, they retreated a bit further under the trees; not far enough to lose sight of the hills, but enough to be hidden by the bushes. Bard had decided they wouldn’t light a fire, as they couldn’t know what and who lingered in the area; taking risks at this stage would be a shame, and besides, the night was warm enough to sleep soundly. 

They ate jerked fish from the rivers that crossed the plains, just enough to feel the salt on their tongues, for Bilbo’s fruits had to be eaten first—if the humming that escaped Thranduil as dinner went by was anything to go by, he would miss them. 

When they were done, Bard only watched as Thranduil lay on his back, eyes towards the stars. He wasn’t sure what else to do but watch and let his thoughts wander. He couldn’t quite put words on the gentle bubbling that had grown inside his chest over the weeks. It hadn’t reached its peak a few nights before; it had merely been the start of the next step. 

It was great affection that Bard felt towards Thranduil, an affection reminiscent of one he’d felt many years ago, and which had pushed him to welcome Thranduil’s kiss and let his barriers fall further down than they’d ever been. But, perhaps they’d been down for a while already. 

Bard wasn’t sure he would call this love, and though the word was stuck in his throat, it rocked comfortably there, too. He did love Thranduil—but it was always easier to think it than to say it. 

Absently, Bard reached for Thranduil’s hand. He remembered clearly the first time he’d touched it: when they had concluded their deal, so long ago in the warmth and safety of Thranduil’s home. It’d been incredibly soft, compared to the roughness of Bard’s own. Today, it wasn’t so soft anymore. 

Bard turned it in his palm, traced the lines on Thranduil’s with the tip of his finger. Thranduil visibly shivered. Bard glanced at his face. “Ticklish?” 

Thranduil shook his head. His gaze had left the stars to lie on Bard. “No. Just sensitive at first.”

Bard hummed in answer, continuing to look and caress until Thranduil’s hand seemed to get used to the touch. Not much later, when he looked back to Thranduil’s face, he’d fallen asleep, his chest rising and falling to the steady rhythm of his breath. Around them, the birds were still singing, a quieter song fit for the night. 

Laying down by Thranduil, Bard lay on his side, his good eye toward the sky. There weren’t many stars lighting it that night, though the moon shone bright; perhaps, there was the reason sleep had been so quick to claim them. On the brightest nights, the stars could keep them awake for longer than they meant to, and rarely did they regret it. 

 

When Bard opened his eyes, he was alarmed to not feel Thranduil next to him; if Thranduil was sometimes up before him, Bard usually at least always heard him. Bard straightened up quickly, and heaved out a sigh as Thranduil entered his line of sight. He was laying against a tree, somewhat of a satisfied expression on his face as he turned something between his fingers. There was something else, too; something darker and more preoccupied in his eyes. 

Noticing Bard was awake, Thranduil stood to sit back next to him, hand closed over whatever he was hiding. Whatever was going on through his head didn’t leave his face, like it would usually have.

Without a word, Thranduil held up a chain before him. It was the silver ring once more, now in a way empty of its memories. 

“It fell again,” Thranduil said. He turned the ring between his fingers, before offering it to Bard. “The closure completely broke this time. I took the liberty to fix it while you slept. It wasn’t so hard.”

Bard blinked several times, taking in the sight and the information, as he raised his hand to let the tip of his fingers brush the ring. 

“You’d think after so long, I’d notice its absence,” Bard eventually said, voice almost a murmur. “Instead, I forget it’s even there—thank you.” With that, Bard took the chain and put it around his neck, squeezing the ring in his hand with a sigh. “You must wonder why I’ve not been more careful. I suppose sometimes I wish I could let it go, but I realize it would hurt me if I did.”

Thranduil answered with a nod and look of understanding, but what he said next wasn’t anything Bard would have expected. 

“Last time,” Thranduil said, and at once Bard understood exactly what Thranduil was talking about. “I saw something I shouldn’t have seen.” 

“Thranduil,” Bard said, brushing Thranduil’s arm with his fingers. “We’ve talked about this.” 

“I know.” He shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment. “But I’ve been thinking much about it, and I believe you deserve to know my story, too.” 

Bard found nothing to say to that. Thranduil spoke little of his life in the first place, and though he had revealed surprisingly much over the duration of their journey, the subject of his wife’s death had never been talked about in detail. 

So Bard straightened up, folding his legs under his body, and made sure his eyes didn’t leave Thranduil, giving him his full attention. 

“It was the first day of spring,” Thranduil started. He couldn’t seem to be able to let go of a lock of his own hair. “She left the house in the morning to go to the market as she always did. I always knew I should have started worrying when she didn’t come home by the time the sun started to set. I figured she’d changed her plans, decided to go for a walk in town, or talk with some of her friends. She had many. As it turns out, she had, but I only went looking for her once the moon rose.”

Bard dared not speak, aware of the fragility of a moment that could break at second’s notice. 

“She wasn’t yet gone when I found her,” he breathed. “But they were still there.” Thranduil paused to meet Bard’s eyes. “I lied, about the scar in my back,” he said. “It wasn’t a childhood accident.” 

Bard knew enough to draw his own conclusions. His expression turned sorry then, though not in pity. Having experienced something similar, Bard remembered clearly the crushing feeling of guilt; why had they lived, when the women they’d given their hearts to had not? 

“I don’t know why they didn’t even try to kill me,” Thranduil added, as if he’d read Bard’s thoughts. “I suppose they enjoyed the thought of my misery.”

Then he continued, grabbing another fruit from one of the bags and peeling it with his dagger. “I had the best doctors sent to her.” Thranduil paused, his eyes getting lost for a moment, the knife still in motion. “It wasn’t enough.”

There wasn’t much Bard could say to this, either, but he heard the meaning behind Thranduil’s words as clearly as if he’d spoken them: ‘ _I_ wasn’t enough.’

Accepting half the fruit Thranduil handed him, Bard let the touch of their fingers linger, just for a moment. 

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry, and—”

“And you understand,” Thranduil finished, and his face broke into a sad smile. “I know.”

Bard nodded, averting his eyes as he brought the fruit to his mouth, and bit in. Looking up again, he tried for a small smile of his own.

“We’ll find your ring,” he said, growing bolder as he took Thranduil’s hand and left a quick kiss upon his knuckles. “It’s a promise.”

 

Two days had passed by the time they left the border of the forest to climb the highest hill nearby, to get a better idea of how far they were from their next stop. Ahead, the hills kept spreading, growing smaller the closer they got to. . . Bard made a nod of his head, satisfied; the lake, merely a small spot on the horizon from there, was nonetheless in sight. 

Glancing Thranduil’s way, Bard noticed the slight quirk of his upper lip, betraying his own satisfaction. Then, his eyes trailed over the landscape, searching for something, and the quirk turned into a smirk as Thranduil pointed to the forest. 

“There,” he said. “The largest tree. There’s a path a bit further down, leading to the house.” 

“We should get there before sunrise, then,” Bard concluded, and took the first step down the hill and back towards the forest. 

_Thump._

Bard’s hand flew to his forehead with a quiet groan.

He squeezed his eyes shut and winced, taken by a sudden headache that made his blood pump harshly against his temple, in rhythm with the beating of his heart. 

Thranduil appeared in his field of view. “You seem unwell,” he said, tilting his head slightly to the side, and though his voice sounded even, Bard didn’t miss the flash of worry in his gaze.

“No, I just—” Bard pinched the bridge of his nose. “I think I know the way.”

Thranduil’s brows furrowed. He’d certainly wondered how they’d find the stash, but such a sudden solution to their problem probably wasn’t what he’d expected. “How so?”

“It must be magic. The Pack’s stash—I’m not sure how, but it knows I’m here, and it’s calling.”

“Could it be anything else?”

Bard shook his head. “It’s weak, rusty,“ he said. “There must not have been a Shapeshifter around here in years. It’s awakening because I’m here. We must have passed the limit of the spell.”

“So now—”

“We only have to follow it,” Bard finished with a nod, then more grimly, “and hope no trouble will cross our way.” 

With that, they headed towards the tree Thranduil had recognised, and took a break under its shade, Bard’s eye now mostly fixed on the dark canopy of the trees. Hopefully no spiders would risk coming their way, but who knew what else lurked under the shadows. However, the birds hadn’t stopped their singing, and it was with a steady, determined pace that Thranduil lead Bard among the trees, assured he would find his way to the house despite all the years that had passed since his last visit as a child. 

Although Bard didn’t voice it, the magic that poked at his mind made his thoughts rather blurry—the thumping hadn’t left, merely quieted down, now the shock of the meeting with its target passed, settling at the corner of Bard’s mind. 

The trees were nothing like anything Bard had seen before; from grey to black, the further they progressed under their canopy, the more colours started to taint the overall darkness of the place. Unlike the dwarf dragons’ forest before the lowlands, these colours didn’t shine, but they were bright enough to stand out, ranging from blood red to sea blue, to silver and gold. 

Amongst it all, rays of sunshine made the place look somewhat less frightening and dangerous than it seemed from the outside, and the thought of having a house built in this place didn’t sound so odd anymore. 

A white wall of brick and metal bars stood tall further ahead, in startling contrast with its surroundings. 

Thranduil accelerated the pace, Bard staying a bit behind as he took in the sight of the abandoned, decaying garden that he could distinguish behind the wall. Thranduil had already reached the entrance, pushing open the gates. 

“Here we are,” Thranduil said in a whisper. 

Bard stopped by Thranduil’s side, a smile plastered on his face as his eyes fell on the house at the end of the path surrounded by dead flowers. 

“Beautiful,” Bard said, taking a few steps forward inside the property.

“Really? It’s a ruin,” Thranduil muttered as they crossed the garden. “And I’m afraid the others are as well.”

“Nothing that can’t be fixed,” Bard said with a shrug. They stopped before the door; an old, huge thing that somehow still stood. “It’s been years since I last put my hands to good use. May I?”

“Be my guest.”

Bard pushed the door open. Inside, it wasn’t as bad as Thranduil made it sound; it was clear the place had been abandoned for years, Thranduil not caring enough to hire servants to keep it presentable, but it still had its charms. Some cleaning up, taking out bird nests, and some food on the table, and it’d feel like home. 

“Is the one by the sea anything like this?”

“A little bigger, but all my properties are similar.”

Bard slowly nodded as he put his bag on a chair. Thranduil seemed amused by Bard’s sudden interest in the houses he owned. With their goal getting closer and closer, he must have understood that Bard now allowed himself to think of it, even if they would still have to walk all the way back home. 

He could see himself and his children in some place like this. They would love this; a big house, rooms of their own, a fireplace, and a garden to take care of. 

Once the door closed behind them, Bard listened to the silence, assuring himself that there was no presence other than theirs within these walls. They still left their bags by the door, though, in case they would have to make a quick exit. 

Thranduil then proceeded to show Bard the rooms, rediscovering them himself as he did so, as he didn’t remember much of the place; only fragments of times long forgotten by his family. 

On the second floor, there was a guest room that looked out on the forest and the gates, and Bard suggested they picked it for the night as it’d offer a better view of whatever danger might come their way. Thranduil agreed, and he went back downstairs to fetch some of their belongings. 

They spent most of the afternoon cleaning the bed of dust and dirt, and when Bard sat on the mattress, he found it quite comfortable despite years of disuse and humidity. But then, many things were more comfortable than the forest ground. 

They cleaned the table as well, in the evening, eating dry meat and what little fruit was left, and were relieved to find the well in the garden could still provide them with fresh, clean water, which they used to fill their waterskins. 

When, at last, night came and the last rays of sunshine couldn’t find their way through the branches anymore, Bard sat on the the edge of the window with a contented sigh, while Thranduil lay on the bed after taking off his tunic, absently braiding a lock of his hair. 

Doing the same of his own tunic, Bard later joined him, sitting by Thranduil’s side. 

He found Thranduil watching him silently, and Bard found himself leaning down to leave a quick kiss to Thranduil’s lips, driven by the place’s fragile feeling of safety. 

“What are we?” he asked then, quietly. He asked because he thought he had to—not because he truly cared to know. 

“I don’t know,” Thranduil replied, and Bard thought he’d remember his next words for a long time, “What do we want to be?”

Bard found nothing to say to that, but he did smile, just the corner of his mouth turned slightly upwards. It didn’t really matter to him, what they were; it mattered that it had happened with them barely noticing, and now, here they were, content with whatever had bloomed between them over the months, as unexpected as it was when looking back to where they’d started. 

Thranduil nodded in agreement, as if he was answering Bard’s silent musing. 

Perhaps not so unexpected, Bard thought.

And with that he leaned down again, placing a testing kiss to Thranduil’s jaw. Thranduil’s chest rumbled with humming or suppressed laughter, Bard couldn’t tell, almost like a cat would when purring. 

He went down to Thranduil’s collarbone then, knowing that was as far as he would try or even wanted to go. 

There was comfort in the knowledge that he didn’t have to explain himself; that he could kiss Thranduil’s collarbone, just for the softness of it, and not expect any chain of action that he hadn’t meant to provoke. 

“I didn’t take you for the affectionate kind,” Thranduil said, and before Bard could worry, he added, “I must admit I rather like it.”

Bard smiled. “Do you now?”

Thranduil hummed, twirling a lock of Bard’s hair around his finger. “If I wanted to bed you, I know you’d be a gentle lover. I do like that.”

Bard propped his head on his hand. “You like to be treated like a king, don’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“The first day we met, when we were eating in your living room—something struck me, and I almost said it.”

“I don’t remember.”

“I was about to say you looked like a big cat.”

“I understand why you restrained yourself, then,” Thranduil said, and there was laughter in his voice. “I wouldn’t have appreciated it from a stranger.”

“And now?”

“I’d say that perhaps you’re right,” Thranduil admitted. “I do like to be— _primped_ , but I like to have my space as well. I suppose that’d make me, as you call it, a big cat.” 

Bard laughed then, rolling on his back and crossing his arms behind his head. “See? We truly aren’t so different after all.”

Then came Thranduil’s turn to tower over him, propping his head on his hand.

“I thought we’d figured that out already,” Thranduil said, with a smirk, and Bard could only let a low laugh escape him. 

However, Thranduil’s eyes were slightly preoccupied as he let his fingers trail over the few scars scattered over Bard’s torso, a million questions within them. Bard knew he wanted to ask about their stories, but wasn’t allowing himself to break the mood. 

Bard didn’t believe many of those were stories worth telling, anyway. And so, he let Thranduil carry on, humming at the warm, pleasant touch upon his skin, until the concern in Thranduil’s eyes faded into relaxed contentment, the more he grew comfortable with the simple care he was providing.

When sleep made Thranduil stop, and the birds sang their evening song, Bard thought that, perhaps, for his part, there was more than a new, quiet life with his children awaiting him on his return. And more than going back to the quietness of his house, on Thranduil's.

 

So used to silence as Bard could be, the first thing Bard noticed when he awoke the next morning was Thranduil’s head neatly tucked against his chest, hair spilling like a waterfall all over the both of them. A low chuckle made his chest shake a bit, amused and endeared as he was by a sight that his mind would never even have considered imagining, had he been told all these months ago that it would occur. 

Closing his arm over Thranduil’s sleeping form, Bard heaved out a quiet sigh, glad to doze in the morning sunlight going through the window, his head still too drowsy from sleep to worry about a thing. He could get used to this. 

It didn’t take much longer for Thranduil to stir lazily, his eyes flickering open. 

However, Thranduil’s brows furrowed a mere few seconds after he’d opened his eyes, ignoring completely the way Bard’s thumb rolled circles upon his shoulder blades. 

“Bard.”

“Hmm?”

“The birds.”

_The birds?_

Abruptly straightening up, Bard’s eyes widened slightly as he, at last, realized the obvious. 

Silence.

Except for the creaking of the stairs. 

Bard had barely regained his senses and pushed the sheet away when the bedroom’s door flung open with a loud crack, the hinges almost breaking as it hit the wall. 

In an instant, three men were inside, swords and bows raised, satisfied grins upon their faces. They were quite similar; large and strong in stature, badly shaved beards and mean little eyes. 

The one in the middle, slightly smaller than the others, took a step forward, his blade dangerously pointed in Bard and Thranduil’s direction. 

Bard was shielding Thranduil before he could consider what he was doing. He couldn’t turn here; he would have no time to, and he and Thranduil would be dead before he could even try. 

Bard cursed under his breath—what a fool he’d been. 

The tip of the sword stopped right against his throat. 

“Well, you were hard to find, Dragonslayer,” said the man, his voice a strange mix of amusement and annoyance. He made a short move with his head, and the two other men went to the sides of the bed, pointing their own weapons at Thranduil, who Bard had felt crouching behind him. 

Their daggers lay on the bedside tables, untouched and untouchable. 

“Who are you?” Thranduil asked, and his tone was as cold and biting as it had sometimes been during their first days together. Just like Bard, he had to know who they were, of course; the men who’d been following them since Rivendell. Minus one. 

He was ignored by the man, who only tilted his head to the side, smirking as he took in, slowly, the sight of a prey he’d spent a no doubt long time hunting. 

“My, my, look at all these scars, Samson,” the leader said, mockery in his voice. “He’s either very unlucky, or a terrible fighter.”

The other two laughed, while Bard kept his head high, trying his best not to let any sign of the nervousness that was taking over him show; there was no good outcome he could imagine from this, and the fear of losing both Thranduil and his chance at being reunited with his children was a hard fire to tame. 

“Must be why he’s so good at hiding,” the man added, somewhat bitterly. “Gotta compensate, don’t ya?”

“Who are you?” Bard asked in turn, though he knew the answer, ignoring the man’s piques as he felt Thranduil’s hard, yet quiet breathing against his shoulder. His mind worked fast and unsuccessfully to try and find a last-chance solution. 

“C’mon, take a wild guess.”

Bard locked eyes with the man and raised his chin, his face showing little emotion. “What’s left of the Pack,” he said calmly. “What else do you know?”

“Oh, we know enough,” the man chuckled. “Who else? A Shapeshifter’s existence revealed, in the area our leaders died? But we don’t blame you—except, maybe, for locking us out of our little treasure room.” He paused, raising his blade higher to let it trace the scar upon Bard’s face. “But enough pleasantries.”

At those words one of the other men threw their leader a piece of rope, which he caught swiftly, then showed to Bard as he put the tip of the sword back over his throat.

“Turn around, turn around,” the man instructed. The blade pressed harder against the side of Bard’s throat, drawing blood. Bard did as he was told, and when at last his face was turned towards Thranduil, Bard could see nothing within Thranduil’s eyes, yet. “Lashing, eh? Someone’s a bad boy. And look at these! A chameleon beast, wasn’t it? My, maybe you’re just terribly unlucky after all.”

Bard saw Thranduil grit his teeth, anger like he’d never seen before taking form in his gaze at the humiliation his friend was going through. It didn’t reach him as much as it did Thranduil—but couldn’t they just be done with it? 

Another of the men moved closer, putting his own sword against Bard’s skin. He pressed it over his throat, while the leader tied Bard’s wrists together. 

“Come on now, off we go, Dragonslayer,” he ordered, his voice suddenly colder than it’d been so far; now would not be the time to resist, or they would not be so kind. 

“Wait,” Bard said. His eyes met Thranduil’s, whose pupils were dilated; showing for the first time that part of him was scared. “Thranduil—”

Bard could almost hear the man’s smirk. “Oh, he can stay here.”

He must have nodded to one of his men, for the pressure of the blade disappeared.

The last thing Bard saw before all went black was a harsh hit being thrown at Thranduil’s head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun duuuun. 
> 
> Two chapters to go!


	12. Erebor II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to apologize for taking two months to update because I guess you're used to it at this point fffskjdfjlm (sorry) 
> 
> Last chapter until the epilogue!
> 
> As always, thank you to [Iza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13) for the editing! <33

Thranduil awoke to an empty house, the shadows set by the moon gracing the floor. There was nothing but quiet, the singing of the birds in the distance, and a painful throbbing against his skull. Groaning, he sat up, pressing his hand to the back of his head with a wince. 

There was no blood when he looked down at it, and though that was a relief, there was still an unpleasant feeling in his gut and an uncomfortable lump in his throat, the reason for which he couldn’t quite pinpoint out. 

He was alone—and it’d been a long time since he’d last been so. 

Like another hit to the head, realization fell down upon him, invisible yet painful all the same as he remembered the morning’s events. He stumbled out of bed at once, quickly putting on his clothes and grabbing his daggers from the bedside table.

Bard.

He went around the bed to retrieve Bard’s own daggers and clothes, before rushing downstairs and breaking outside. He looked around, for anything that could tell him which way the men of the Pack had taken Bard.

There was nothing that his eyes could see.

Cursing under his breath, Thranduil took their bags, thankfully already ready by the door. He was tired and hungry, but it didn’t matter; not until he’d gotten Bard back, safe and sound. 

Thranduil hid their belongings in bushes away from the house, so that if he managed to get Bard out of there, they would find them easily and intact, as Thranduil suspected the men of the Pack would go for the house immediately. He kept all their daggers and a waterskin on his belt, and let his eyes wander across the road, trying to ignore the thumping of his heart. 

Eventually he found the prints of both men and the wheels a carriage. He drew in a sharp breath, and as he took his first steps towards Bard, Thranduil recalled the many times Bard had used techniques to follow the path of animals—it couldn’t be much harder with people.

Besides, he had his own abilities to help him.

He’d spent so long by Bard’s side that he could tell where Bard’s Shapeshifter energy was starkly absent; still, traces of it lingered in the air. 

Concentrating when he was so worried made the journey difficult, but not impossible. Thranduil could do nothing but hope Bard was alright. If the Pack had taken him alive, it couldn’t be to kill him so soon, and Bard was too clever to do something that would get himself hurt. 

However, there were some obstacles that were not under his control; now that Bard was gone, Thranduil managed to catch glimpses of spiders, and with constant wary glances around he kept his daggers at the ready. 

In the end, he didn’t need to use them: the spiders didn’t get much closer, and Thranduil assumed Bard’s smell lingered too much on him for them to take any risks.

The path the Pack had left behind them, along with Bard’s energy, lead Thranduil higher and higher onto the mountain, where it was colder and harsher; Thranduil couldn’t help but think of Bard, who’d been taken with only his pants and a tunic to keep him warm. He let out another curse—he would make them pay, if he could. Without a mere second of hesitation. 

He hadn’t meant for him and Bard to become so close—but perhaps he’d been a fool, to believe they would not. Even more so when it’d become clear how alike they were. 

Thranduil shook his head. Sentiments were a complicated thing, and he had no time to think about their personal journeys just now. 

He’d have all the time in the world for thinking once he found Bard, though perhaps he didn’t need to; it was all pretty clear to him, even if it had taken time to realize it. 

The minutes turned into hours, and Thranduil never allowed himself to let his guard down as he made his way up the mountain. 

Eventually, the sounds of the forest grew quieter. Thranduil slowed; knew he had to be nearing a large concentration of people. 

He took a moment to collect himself, before continuing on. 

Soon enough, he crossed paths with a man on patrol. Thranduil took him down with speed, sneaking behind him and digging his dagger into the man’s throat. 

Quickly and quietly, Thranduil took off the man’s coat before blood could stain it, and passed it over his shoulders. He groaned at the swarm of memories that flooded through him, little of them of good taste. Mostly blood that wasn’t the man’s own and bad ale spilled over the fabric.

He doubted the Pack cared enough to give Bard something to warm himself up; going through a few bad memories wasn’t much of a price to pay.

It took one more patroller, taken down effortlessly, and much concentration on his abilities for Thranduil to find a camp—and the stash they’d come all this way for, with it. 

It was currently open, and far from an impressive thing; merely a hole in the rocky wall of the mountain, just big enough for two people to walk through. Definitely no turned Shapeshifter, which Thranduil had suspected was the only way that Bard could somehow open the stash’s entrance. If they had needed Bard to go in and out, Thranduil didn’t want to think of how many times he must have had to turn back and forth at the Pack’s command. 

To think his ring was in there, somewhere. 

The ring they had both risked their lives for. 

But priorities had changed, and a ring, as precious as it was to him, meant little when compared to Bard’s life. 

Thranduil discreetly went around the camp, hiding behind trees and rocks and bushes, and keeping an eye on his back as well—who knew who or what could come out of the forest. Yet what he focused on most was locating Bard; he must have been left not far from the entrance of the stash, but not too close, either. Perhaps—

Thranduil’s eyes searched the area, going for the other side of camp, opposite the stash. 

Thranduil’s breath stopped when he saw Bard, a wave of relief and anger combined rushing through him.

Bard was tied up to a tree at the edge of the camp, and it would have looked like he’d been forgotten there, had it not been for the two men crouched and eating not too far away. He seemed alright, sleeping, and yet looked drained of all strength, his head hanging uncomfortably over his shoulder.

Thranduil had passed by there, but hadn’t noticed him the first time. 

“Hey, you!”

Despite starting, Thranduil reacted quickly; he rose to grab the man by the base of his neck in a firm grip, killing him with one swift hit to the heart, before pulling the body behind the bushes. 

Without doubt the man’s absence would be noticed soon enough; Thranduil had to be fast. 

He ran back the direction he’d come, stopping where he remembered having seen Bard.

Bard was, unsurprisingly, still there against the tree, unaware of Thranduil’s presence. Crouching, Thranduil made his way over to him, eyes darting around their surroundings; the two guards hadn’t moved, and most of the other men were, Thranduil supposed, still in the stash. 

Thranduil put a soft hand on Bard’s shoulder, and shook him gently. His only reaction was a small wince and Bard’s head seeming to fall lower. At least Bard wasn’t unconscious—merely asleep like Thranduil had guessed. 

“Bard,” Thranduil whispered, his voice pressing. “Bard, please, wake up.”

Eventually Bard’s eyes flickered open at the repeated mention of his name. It took him a moment to realize who was in front of him, but his good eye didn’t perk up at the sight. Instead, he seemed partially horrified, and too tired to hide it. Meanwhile Thranduil could do little to retain a sigh of relief. 

“Thranduil,” he breathed. “What are you doing here?”

“Rescuing you.”

“I don’t—Thranduil, they’ll kill you this time.” Bard gave Thranduil an insistent, troubled look. “Please, go.”

Bard’s last words came out as a plea that Thranduil pretended wasn’t affecting him.

“If you think I came all this way to leave you here, you’re a fool,” Thranduil said. “You’re coming home with me, even if trying kills us both.”

The hard look that Thranduil sent Bard silenced him before he could protest.

“The guards I didn’t take care of haven’t seen me,” Thranduil added, as he went around Bard to cut the rope around his wrists. “Can you walk?”

“I might need some help at first,” Bard replied, reluctantly. 

Thranduil gave Bard a once over. He truly didn’t look to be in great shape, though he didn’t seem to be in any pain. 

“Did they hurt you?”

Bard shook his head. “No, but that headache won’t stop, and I’m exhausted,” he said. “I won’t be able to do much more turning.”

“You won’t have to.” As Thranduil said those words, Bard’s hands were freed. “Let’s go.”

Hesitation flashed across Bard’s face. “But, Thranduil—”

“Forget about the ring, Bard,” Thranduil said, quickly helping Bard up and away until he felt Bard had found his footing again. 

Bard didn’t have time to answer nor protest; already a shout from the other side of the camp was heard, loud and angry and leaving no doubts: they had found the body Thranduil had left on the outskirts of camp, and now or never was the time to run, before their luck turned. 

Thranduil helped Bard put on the coat he’d retrieved, kept his arm around Bard’s shoulders, and got going. 

Being truly freed seemed to give Bard renewed energy; he pushed through his exhaustion, driven by, Thranduil believed, his own wish to keep Thranduil safe. 

Thranduil’s heart missed a beat when, as he’d felt on his way to the camp, they found spiders waiting for them in the forest; but they broke apart like water cut by a blade, letting them pass through the moment they visibly realized Bard’s nature, as weak as it was. 

The sight of them, black and huge as they were, still made Thranduil’s blood run cold. He accelerated the pace, wishing to be as far from them and their pursuers as quickly as possible.

Let the Pack deal with them. 

Beside him, Bard’s breath was laborious—they would need to find a place to spend the night, so that he could regain enough of his strength to go back on the road, far enough that the Pack wouldn’t find him again. How Bard could make them lose his trace forever was another problem, but there was no time to dwell on such thoughts; they needed to rest, and fast. 

They’d been running for so long that even Thranduil’s legs carried him with less and less strength the more they progressed, when Bard, slowing down, pointed amongst the trees. “Thranduil, there!” 

Thranduil squinted at what Bard tried to show him. He eventually noticed a larger tree, and remembering the first forest they’d crossed, his eyes shifted to Bard, holding a silent question.

“We’ll be safe for a while.”

Thranduil needed not hear more. They headed towards the tree, and as Thranduil had expected, found it was open on the other side, offering shelter from the wind—and from view, should one walk past fast enough. 

As Bard let himself fall on the carpet of leaves, he let out a deep breath, running his hand through his hair as he tried to compose himself. It took him a few minutes to fully catch his breath, and Thranduil keeping a reassuring hand on his shoulder the whole time. 

Bard gladly took the waterskin Thranduil handed him. Much to Thranduil’s surprise, his next words were spoken lightly, though his tone was filled with as much weariness as his eyes were. 

“Rescued by my employer—who would have believed that?”

Even Thranduil, through his own nervousness and fatigue, had to admit that it was kind of amusing to think about. 

“Keep your mouth shut and rest,” Thranduil retorted, though his voice held none of the coldness his words might have implied. 

A small smile brightened up Bard’s face. “Aye, I owe you that much. But this—” He reached to his neck, undid the clasp, and lifted the chain Thranduil had gotten to know up. “—should be enough.”

Thranduil didn’t notice right away that there was not one, but two rings hanging from it. When recognition dawned across Thranduil’s face, Bard’s tired smile grew slightly larger. He slid the gold ring from the chain, and held it out in front of Thranduil’s eyes.

Thranduil stared down at the ring in disbelief. He glanced up to Bard, warmth in his eyes despite his exhaustion, then back to it. 

“How did you—”

“Someone should have told them not to yell their finds at each other while I was around.” Bard huddled deeper into his coat, yawning. “Couldn’t try not to look when they mentioned a chest full of jewelry.”

“And they didn’t catch you?”

“Oh, they did,” Bard laughed in a breath. He showed Thranduil a purple mark on his upper arm, surely from being harshly yanked away. Thranduil cracked a smile despite himself, and felt bad for it. 

He delicately took the ring from Bard, like it was a precious, fragile thing, and turned it between his fingers. A lump formed in his throat at the sight of the patterns carved inside it.

Without any doubt, it was his family’s ring, passed down from generation to generation, finally back into its rightful owner’s hands. 

After all this time, Thranduil could barely believe what he was seeing, and yet, here it was; still warm from being kept against Bard’s skin, gleaming in the gentle ray of sunshine that passed through the canopy of the trees. 

Thranduil looked back up at Bard. He first thought he’d lost his voice, but when the words did find their way out, they were as assured as they always were. “Thank you.”

“Guess I truly deserve that reward now.” 

Thranduil rolled his eyes, before softening some more. “I thought I’d never see it again.” 

Bard was looking at him sleepily. “And I thought you believed in me,” he said.

“You know what I mean, Bard.”

Bard laughed again, just a bit. “Aye.”

Bard fell asleep not long after that, when he grew too tired to keep his eyes open and wonder at the gratefulness in Thranduil’s eyes, leaving Thranduil to his own silent musings. 

Thranduil adjusted his own cloak over Bard’s chest, laying a worried gaze on him until he convinced himself that Bard was indeed alright, and merely drained of strength a good night of sleep would help him get back. 

He then looked down at the ring—that same ring that had brought them here, through both pain and wonder. He closed his hand around it, and pressed it over his heart, murmured a few words to it, as though its previous owner could hear him. 

Thranduil told her that he was sorry. 

 

Bard woke a few hours later, when the night had sent the forest into darkness. In the wind they heard no more shouts—even the Pack being wise enough not to travel at night, when the spiders and other creatures of the forest could move unseen. 

They could only count on their eyes adjusting to the dark to see enough—which, Thranduil had learned months ago, wasn’t a problem for Bard. They drank some more water, and Thranduil shared with Bard what was left of the dried meat stored in his belt’s satchel. In the trunk, Bard also found mushrooms that he deemed safe to eat raw. Thranduil was so hungry that he couldn’t bring himself to care.

The ring never left his hands. He kept turning it between his fingers, like he awaited an answer from it, now that he’d gotten it back. Though Thranduil couldn’t see him, he could still feel Bard’s eye on him. 

“You should get some more sleep,” Thranduil murmured. “There’s still a long way to go—and a lot of running, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll manage,” was Bard’s answer. There was a moment of silence before he asked, “But will you?”

Thranduil’s brows creased together. “What makes you say that?”

“You seem troubled.”

“Perhaps I am.”

There was a pause, only broken by the quiet howling of the wind against the bark. “Did you believe getting your ring back would make the pain go away?”

Thranduil’s eyes snapped to Bard’s face, and he wished he could see him. “I used to,” he said. “In the end, I just hoped it would give me answers—but to which questions, I don’t know.”

“No memories?”

Thranduil shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. Bard’s thoughts were as clear to him as if he’d spoken them; he’d seen all that was good not long before Lhaewel died, emptying the ring of all the good it held, leaving only sorrow. He didn’t deserve to live her death a second time. “Perhaps it needs new ones.”

Bard didn’t answer, but Thranduil felt his hand finding his wrist, giving it a squeeze. A familiar gesture now, that Thranduil realized he would have missed, had something happened to him. 

He closed his hand over Bard’s, and slowly he found inner peace again, to the steady rhythm of Bard’s breath, the way his fingers applied pressure to his wrist now and then. It almost made him forget the fear he’d felt the previous morning; that limb-numbing fear that this time, he might not succeed in saving Bard. But Bard was alright—weary and tired, but ultimately. . . alright. 

In the dark, Thranduil gently grabbed Bard’s head between his hands, and kissed him; first the corner of his mouth and then his lips, finally allowing himself to free a deep breath from his chest. 

Then, as he lay his back against the bark and pressed his side to Bard’s to keep each other warm, he said, “Rest.”

Bard let out a sigh of contentment. He’d probably had enough stress for a lifetime. 

Soon enough, sleep claimed him once more, his head falling against Thranduil’s shoulder, his hand losing its grip.

Thranduil rested his head against Bard’s as he listened to the sounds of the forest—it was still as quiet as before. 

“Would you approve of us, Lhaewel?” Thranduil asked, as if to himself. 

He held the ring tight, taking some more time to feel its shape, the patterns inside it under the tips of his fingers. He was relieved to have it back, but admitting that it didn’t change how he’d felt for many years wouldn’t be as easy as he’d hoped. 

The meaning of this ring—it had once been filled with hope and love. Now it was just a relic of a time a life had been taken too soon. It wasn’t as beautiful as it used to be. 

But it could be beautiful again.

“I think you would have,” Thranduil murmured after a moment, sliding the ring to his little finger. It still fit perfectly. 

His eyes then shifted to the canopy of the trees. He imagined he could see the stars, until his eyelids grew too heavy, and the stars disappeared. 

 

“They can’t be much further!”

Thranduil bolted upright a mere second before Bard did. Though he looked better than the day before, tiredness still marked his face, along with the sleep they’d just woken from. 

“We have to move,” Thranduil breathed, his tone pressing. 

Bard nodded, getting to his feet and quickly fastening the coat over his shoulders, while Thranduil did the same with his own cloak. He then put his arm on Bard’s shoulder, and led him forward through the dark forest.

Until, at least, Thranduil wasn’t so sure which way to go anymore. 

They stopped to catch their breaths, getting used to being awake and having had no time to shake away the fog of their dreams. 

Seeing that Bard seemed to be thinking hard, Thranduil didn’t pressure him to keep moving right away, despite the shouts that still followed them. Getting closer and closer. 

“Which way to go?” Thranduil asked eventually. “We can’t keep standing here.”

“They’ll catch us soon enough. They know the mountain, and we don’t.” Before Thranduil could cut in, he added, “I have an idea, but you’re not going to like it.”

Before Thranduil could get an explanation, Bard caught his arm and led him forward, taking a sharp left. An arrow flew right next to his ear. 

“I’ll have to turn one more time,” Bard explained on the way, and if the look in his eye was anything to go by, he knew exactly which reaction to expect from Thranduil. 

“You can’t turn!” Thranduil protested, tearing his arm from Bard’s hand. “You’re still recovering—”

However Bard didn’t listen. He kept on running, Thranduil on his heels, concentrated on losing the Pack. They were dangerously close—whatever Bard’s idea was, it had to work, or they would never go home. 

But Thranduil’s worries didn’t lessen the more they progressed. If anything, they grew. From somewhere further ahead, the sound of water crashing violently found his ears.

“The waterfall?!” Thranduil cursed under his breath; this was getting better and better. “You can’t be serious—”

“Then we won’t outrun them!” Bard cut off. “We’ll reach the waterfall, wait for them to see us, and fall.”

“No way,” Thranduil said, shaking his head. “You said no one ever survived it. We won’t either.”

“I can turn faster than I let them see, and they don’t know that,” Bard said. That he still had to catch his breath didn’t reassure Thranduil in the slightest. “I’ll turn in time. I’ll protect you from the shock. We’ll make it.”

“Bard—”

“Do we have another choice?”

Thranduil glared at him. Behind them, the voices were getting closer, making shivers run down Thranduil’s arms. Bard was right; they had no chance of leaving the forest alive—not with trained killers who’d lived in it for years on their heels. 

Thranduil gave a sharp nod of his head. “Alright. I trust you.”

Not much longer saw them leaving the forest and breaking onto a small, rocky plateau.

The sight of the waterfall made Thranduil visibly shiver, and his apprehension only increased when they stopped at its edge. There was no way a human body could survive such a fall. 

The bottom wasn’t only far down; it was also narrow. They would have only one try, and it all rested on Bard’s shoulders. 

Not only did Bard have to successfully turn after disappearing under the mist, but he also had to properly catch Thranduil and fall in the water, not next to it. 

And hope it was deep enough.

Thranduil winced at the thought, and judging by the look on Bard’s face, he was thinking the same thing. This would be even more dangerous than originally planned.

Yet they truly had no other choice. 

Any moment now, the men of the Pack would join them, and they would have to jump. No mental preparation, no training. In a breath, Bard told Thranduil to stay close. Parting from Bard had never once crossed his mind. 

Bard then turned his back on the precipice. With a light brush to his wrist, Thranduil was told to do the same. Bard’s whole body language abruptly changed from adrenaline-filled to mock exhaustion. 

An arrow planted itself at their feet. 

Then another. 

Warnings. 

The second the Pack’s leader and his hard, angry look took the first step out of the forest, Bard took one of his own. An awkward step _back_ , like he’d been taken by surprise, driven by his weariness, though it couldn’t be further from the truth. The patch of earth he stepped on crumbled under his foot.

A cry stuck in his throat, Thranduil instinctively reached out to him.

Thranduil had little time to fully understand what was happening before he was taken down with Bard, his arm grabbed at the last moment. 

They fell, and the air was cold, the drops of water like tiny rocks hitting him.

It felt like embracing certain death, until the drops turned softer, and Thranduil felt himself being pressed against something large and warm.

Then, icy cold again, a shock that made his body tremble, and water filling his lungs as a sharp pain made him cry out. 

Darkness, and when light came back again, all he could feel was the hard ground under him, pain, and the warmth of the sun upon his face. Thranduil rolled on his back, taking big gasps of breath. He blinked several times, until his eyes found their focus again, and his ears stopped buzzing. His arm hurt like hell. 

Thranduil’s first instinct was to look around for Bard—it didn’t take much to find him, alive and unhurt, and the relief Thranduil felt almost made him forget his pain. 

Straightening up with a groan, Thranduil looked up, and found he couldn’t even see the top of the waterfall. He broke into a victorious smirk. 

At his feet, the water moved quickly and dangerously. If the Pack didn’t find their bodies here, they would think them taken by the river, where they’d be lost to the sea. 

As for Bard, he lay not far from Thranduil, the huge beast that he was breathing in and out deeply, watching him with eyes that seemed to be saying, ‘I told you so.’

Like he could have predicted a miracle.

Thranduil walked up to him, holding his arm, and crouched by Bard’s side. 

“It’s over,” Thranduil said, in a voice that was as reassuring as he could manage despite the pain in his arm. He let go of it to put his hand flat against Bard’s jaw, let his fingers pass through the mess of a mane. 

His lips formed a small smile. 

Bard blinked, just once, his big, gleaming lion eye shining in the sunlight, and Thranduil nodded. 

“We’re going home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next, the epilogue! (which will be posted soon!!) This story is coming to an end... what an adventure, I can't believe I started it almost three years ago! Apologies in advance for the lengthy end notes, but I'll have quite a few things to say! :)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you liked it! Let me know, nothing would make me happier! <3


	13. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance for the lengthy End Notes!

Bard’s heart had never swelled more with hope. It had never tasted so sweet, either.

There had been a time he had been wary of hope—but now? Now, Bard could see light at the end of a very long, dark tunnel. 

After surviving the waterfall and losing the men of the Pack, he and Thranduil had retrieved their belongings from where Thranduil had hidden them, before searching for a place where Bard could regain enough energy to go back on the road. It had taken a few days, during which Bard’s headache caused by the spell on the Pack’s stash hadn’t stopped. 

Then, once Bard had had enough rest and Thranduil had found a way to keep his arm still, they’d left the forest and headed straight to the chain of mountains. There they took the tunnel Thranduil had once refused to even step in, and when they had stepped out on the other side, it was Thranduil who had been full of hope, almost forgetting his broken arm. 

The journey back was so quiet that Bard discovered that he could see the land differently—the world couldn’t be anything but brighter, when the future didn’t look so grim anymore. 

But when, weeks after leaving Erebor, they arrived in Rivendell, they didn’t find what they had come there for; Legolas and his friends had gone back on the road again, and once more Thranduil found himself unsure of when he would see his son again. 

Bard was well placed to understand, and he spoke much with Thranduil about it, trying to show as much support as Thranduil had given and was still giving him concerning his own children. 

It wasn’t easy, but in Bard’s hope, Thranduil eventually found his own. 

As they rested on the outskirts of Rivendell, spending no less than a month there to get Thranduil’s arm properly taken care of after weeks on the road without being able to do anything but keep it from getting worse, Bard spent much of his time looking out to the silhouette of Laketown, barely visible on the other side of the lake. He fed heron turtles as he did so, letting them nudge at his hand when he had no more food to give them.

Meanwhile, Thranduil sat by his side, turning and turning his ring between his fingers, seeming deep in thought as to what to do with it now that he’d gotten it back. 

Towards the end of their stay, Thranduil bought Bard new clothes, insisting he had to make a good impression on his children. They weren’t fancy clothes by any means, and Bard appreciated that Thranduil had merely chosen clean, newer versions of Bard’s current outfit.

The few days of walk to Laketown felt like months. With each new step towards his children, Bard felt both more excited, and more apprehensive. He’d voiced his concerns to Thranduil months before, in Bilbo’s house, and they hadn’t changed much since then. He supposed he would only be fully at peace when the time came—he’d missed his children more than words could say, and could only hope they would be glad to see him after so long apart. 

He would understand it, if they weren’t. Even if it’d break his heart. 

It was strange, thinking of who he was before Thranduil, all those months ago; deprived of hope, passively angry at the world, and talking to himself to forget his loneliness. 

Now here he was, dressed in new clothes, able to see where the road was leading, talking to someone who’d listen when he needed to. It almost sounded too good to be true, and yet. 

And Thranduil—Thranduil had changed, too. He’d been perhaps more angry at everything and everyone than Bard had been. He’d been cold, and uncaring, and believed that there was no more place left for good things in the world. 

He’d never been proven more wrong. He’d opened his heart to someone new, and though Bard still saw the Thranduil he’d first met when they talked to strangers, when Thranduil’s eyes were directed at him, they were always warm. 

Bard found that Thranduil was nervous too, when they stepped into the forest on the left outskirt of Laketown instead of heading directly to it. He couldn't quite figure out why, but he was sure it was there; he'd had enough time to learn to read Thranduil almost like an open book.

They settled in a clearing—that same clearing Bard used to take his children to. Where he turned for them, and watched them play, as he’d once told Thranduil. 

They found little to say as they set down their bags. For once, their shared apprehension wasn’t about their lives being in danger—but perhaps about much worse. For one second, Bard found himself fearing something had happened to one of them—that they’d done all this only to get there too late. 

Bard shook the bad thoughts out of his head. If anything had indeed happened, he was sure Hilda would have found a way to let him know. 

“Are you ready?” Thranduil’s voice came out gentle from behind Bard. 

Bard gave a slow nod of his head. He turned towards Thranduil, who was watching him expectantly. They’d come up with a plan over their weeks of travelling; Bard would say close to the village, while Thranduil found his children in town, and brought them back to the clearing. Then they’d go back to retrieve everything they needed, which wasn’t a lot, before following Thranduil to the house that would be their new home. 

Only then would Thranduil leave them, and Bard tried not to think about it too much yet, even though he knew Thranduil wouldn’t be gone forever—merely a few weeks, before they’d see each other again and, Bard hoped, stay together if his children allowed it. 

Taking a deep breath, Bard made sure he hadn’t forgotten to tell Thranduil anything about town and how to find Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda, before reaching out to his own neck and unclasping the chain. He handed Thranduil his ring. 

“This should help convince them,” Bard said. “But I’ve taught them to be wary of strangers, so they won’t trust you. You must tell them something that they can’t question.” Bard thought for a moment, until his eyes turned warmer at the idea that formed in his head. 

“I know exactly what to say,” Thranduil cut in before Bard could say anything. “Trust me.”

Bard tried to read his face, without success, before nodding. “Alright.” He cracked a smirk. “Don't scare them off, aye?”

Thranduil scoffed. “I thought you held me in better esteem.”

Bard’s answer was a short, good-hearted laugh. He gave a squeeze to Thranduil’s wrist, like he’d grown used to doing. 

Adjusting his cloak over his shoulders, Thranduil made to leave, only to stop a few steps away. 

“Before I go,” he said, turning on his heels and holding up his finger like he’d forgotten something. “There’s something—” He took his own ring from his finger, and, an arm behind his back, offered it to Bard. “I’d like you to have it.”

Bard blinked several times, not sure of what Thranduil meant. “I suppose I could hang it with mine until you have to leave, if you’re afraid of losing it.”

“No.” Thranduil shook his head with a roll of his eyes, like he was saying, ‘of course I’m not afraid to lose it.’ He took Bard’s hand, and Bard’s body relaxed all the more at the touch. He put the ring in Bard’s palm. “I mean have it, and keep it.”

Confused, Bard stared at him. “Keep it? You just got it back, Thranduil.”

“Yes, but I’ve thought much, and just like I wanted my wife to have it, I now want you to.” Thranduil closed Bard’s hand on the ring, and closed his own two hands over Bard’s fist. “It was never meant to be worn by the descendants of my family, and that includes me,” he explained. “Only by whoever we wished to share it with.”

Thranduil had rendered Bard speechless. His eyes went from Thranduil’s to their joined hands repeatedly. “I—”

“If you accept it—” Thranduil cut him off, “You don’t have to say anything.”

A nod of his head, and Bard squeezed back Thranduil’s hand. He then leaned forward, and pressed a kiss to Thranduil’s lips. “Don’t take too long.”

“Of course.” Thranduil turned his back on him, and though Bard couldn’t see him, he knew that Thranduil was smiling. “I wouldn’t want to make you wait.”

With that, he disappeared amongst the trees, leaving Bard alone in the clearing.

He was left with silence, apprehension, happy memories of the long hours he’d spent here long ago, and—

Bard looked down to his hand, unable to tell how the sight of Thranduil’s ring back in his palm made him feel. He wasn’t sure he was deserving of it—but who was he to make that call? 

His mouth formed a smile that was only shaken off when he remembered he had many hours to wait until Thranduil came back with his children, and soon apprehension took back its place inside him. 

However, it was now softened by the gift Thranduil had given him, and it was with a lighter heart that he sat down to wait. 

Taking his chain off once again, Bard threaded it through the ring, before putting it back around his neck. 

Then, he closed his eyes.

 

First, Bard heard their voices, tone coming off to his ears as both curious and cautious the closer they got. 

Awkwardly, he scrambled to his feet, adjusting his clothes and a hand coming up to tightly squeeze Thranduil’s ring around his neck, the other the satchel at his belt. His breath caught in his throat, and he found himself frozen where he stood, unable to tear his eyes away from the trees. 

His heart beat so fast that he thought it might leap out of his chest and run to them. 

The moment he saw his children, Bard forgot all the reasons he’d been so nervous. The hope that had been growing in his chest turned into such joy that it overcame everything else, but which he kept bottled up out of habit. 

Followed closely by Thranduil, Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda had stopped the second they’d stepped into the clearing and seen him. Wide-eyed, like they'd seen a ghost.

Despite himself, a small smile came to brighten Bard’s face—how could he not, at the sight of them? 

His children—Sigrid, now as tall as her mother had been, eyes wiser but face also harder in its softness; Bain, almost a man, yet his look still one of a young boy; Tilda, just a child, but not as much of a little girl as she had been, all those years ago.

It had been so long—what were they thinking? 

Bard merely stood there, unsure of what he could or couldn’t do despite knowing exactly what he _wanted_ to do. He wished he could embrace them, kiss their foreheads. Maybe he’d shed a tear or two. 

He didn’t believe he had any right to make the first step.

There was silence, for a short moment that seemed to go on and on, building up the anxiety in Bard’s chest. 

He thought that perhaps, they would never forgive him for being gone so long. He searched Thranduil’s face for support, and the calm nod that was sent his way eased some of his fear. ‘Wait,’ it said. 

Sigrid’s face was the first to break into a smile. She ran towards him, crashed into his chest before he could have any proper reaction. 

Bain followed a mere few seconds after her, a broken ‘Da!’ escaping his mouth. 

Tears were quick to fill his eye, and Bard closed his arms around them. For all the weight that was lifted from his shoulders, he thought he’d crumble under the one that fell upon him at the realization of all the time they’d lost, all those lost years and embraces. 

“My children—my children—” he said in a breath. In that moment, no other words could leave his mouth, and whatever else they might have been, they wouldn’t have been as strong as those.

Bard separated them, just for a second, so that he could take a better look at them, brush their cheeks with his thumbs. 

“Look at you,” he said, softly, “Look how much you’ve grown...!” 

“I knew you’d come back!” Bain cried. He wasted no time in burying his face in his father’s tunic again. 

“We’ve missed you so much, Da,” Sigrid said. Bard wiped the tears from her cheeks, cupping her face between his hands. “Tilda—she never stopped asking about you—asking when you’d come home.” She turned around, hands still clasped on his, and sent a reassuring smile Thranduil’s way.

Only Tilda remained by his side, her little arms grabbing at his leg.

Bard looked over their heads to Thranduil again, sharing a short nod of mutual understanding. He quickly directed his attention to his daughter. 

At Sigrid’s words, Bain turned around as well and gestured to his little sister to join them. “Come on, Tilda! Look, it’s Da!”

But she hung to Thranduil’s leg harder, hiding half her face in his clothes, only one of her eyes still fixed on Bard.

Letting go of Sigrid and Bain, Bard crouched slowly, reaching to the satchel hanging from his belt. He took out the doll he’d once showed Thranduil—the doll Tilda had put into that same satchel, long ago, when he’d been covered in dirt and blood. 

Tilda gasped, her hands leaving Thranduil to fly over her mouth.

“It’s Da, darling,” Bard said, in his most gentle voice. “I promised I’d come home, didn’t I?”

For a moment she merely stared at him, her big blue eyes going from the doll to his face. 

He held his breath as she took her first step towards him, gently pushed forward by Thranduil. Though Bard felt his eyes on him, he couldn’t bring himself to look away from his girl. 

Sigrid and Bain, still by his sides, seemed to be holding their breaths as well. 

When she got close enough, Bard slowly handed the doll to her. She took it just as slowly, looking at it before bringing it up to her chest and squeezing it. 

Then, she reached out to him.

Tilda traced his face, not flinching at the scar under her fingers, eyes bright.

She grinned.

“Da!” she exclaimed, a bit like a hatching, like she was seeing him for the first time. Her brows creased together as she gave him a once over, before softening again. “I like your clothes—they’re pretty. Your friend is pretty, too.”

A quiet laugh shaking him, Bard could do little but grin back. “Hello, darling,” he said. 

She wrapped her arms around his neck, and Bard rose, carrying her over his hip like he used to, pretending she wasn’t getting too big for this, and himself, too old. 

He kissed her forehead, too, and laughing, she buried her head in the crook of his neck.

Sigrid and Bain exchanged a look, before joining in the embrace. Bard tried to keep his composure, but couldn’t help but let out a short laugh at the sight of Thranduil having the same hard time. 

Bard swore Thranduil would have been crying, if he weren’t so proud. 

He extended his free hand towards Thranduil, inviting him to get closer. 

At first, Thranduil merely stared, as though he didn’t understand why he should take those steps. 

So, Bard put his hand over the ring around his neck, then over his heart, before extending it back to Thranduil, under the curious eyes of his children. Then, he said, “If you want me to keep yours—I’d like you to have mine.”

At that, Thranduil looked down to Bard’s ring, still around his finger, then back up at Bard. His thoughts would have been unreadable, if he hadn’t returned the gesture: a hand over his heart, that he extended towards Bard in a silent reply. 

They shared another nod, a knowing look. 

Bard was a man who had learned to hope again, and Thranduil one who had learned to let go, to better keep going—and those dangerous, forgotten roads that had led them there, that they’d taken together. 

Thranduil took his first steps, joining Bard and his children. He smiled down at the three of them, before facing Bard, and, catching Bard’s wrist and squeezing it gently in the way Bard always did to him, he said:

“Stay close.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Some Fic Notes:**  
>  • What Thranduil told Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda, was simply the whole truth. It was the way Thranduil talked of Bard talking about them that convinced them, though.
> 
> • On his way back to Bree, Thranduil meets with the dwarf dragon he'd befriended. Last thing he'd expected to get from this journey was a pet, and yet...!
> 
> • A few days before Thranduil leaves his home again, Legolas shows up at his door. He doesn't stay, but over time things eventually get better between them. When he meets Bard and his children, he immediately takes a liking to them. 
> 
> • A few months after leaving Bard, Thranduil goes back to Bard and his children's new home by the sea, and settles with them. Tilda is completely crazy over their new pet dragon. 
> 
> I was supposed to post this on December 31st, but I remembered that exactly three years ago today, I started shipping Barduil. So I thought that today was the perfect day to post the epilogue of this story, which I came up with in March 2015, so very early in my fanfiction journey. As I said a while back in the notes, the first chapter was the second or third story I ever wrote. So, this fic... you could say it's the perfect example of... what's the word? I don't know, but I took so long to write it (almost three years, and almost two since I started posting! if you followed it from the beginning, thank you so much, I can't believe you're still there!) that it went through all my journey as a fanfiction writer. I have no doubt that if I reread the first chapters, I would find them very different than the last ones. 
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoyed going on this journey with me! This fic, it's all the stories I used to tell myself to fall asleep when I was a kid, turned into one big adventure. I've always dreamed I'd write a story based on them one day, and this is it. Forgotten Roads is that story.
> 
> My first thanks go to [Iza](http//archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13) who's worked on the editing of this fic since the very beginning! (and who got me the prettiest lion plush for my birthday!! Of course, I called him Bard) Thank you so much friend, you were so helpful and I don't know what this story would be like without you! <3
> 
> Then, I'd like to thank everyone who supported this story and encouraged me, whether you started reading it from the day the first chapter was posted, or caught up along the way. There were many times when I just thought I'd never finish it. And every time I had to push myself to sit down and, you know, write, even if I didn't feel like writing at all. I did it because I would never have forgiven myself if I'd abandonned it, since it means so much to me, and because you guys deserved it. So, thank you!
> 
> If you enjoyed this journey, please press the Kudos button if you haven't already! Then, it would truly mean an awful lot to me if you left even a tiny comment. Please, it's never too late to leave one! How many were you to get this far? :D
> 
> Well, looks like I'm done here. Thank you so, so much for reading!! I'm done with long fics, but you can expect a Barduil Beauty and the Beast!AU one-shot sometimes next year! Happy holidays!
> 
> Missed my Hobbit Big Bang fic? [It's never too late to check it out!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10962315) <3

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr @ [evansluke](http://evansluke.tumblr.com) or [barduil](http://barduil.tumblr.com) ~ Feel free to message me questions or talk to me about my stories! :D
> 
> [Here's the fic's aesthetic](http://evansluke.tumblr.com/post/157239917253/forgotten-roads-bardthranduil-fantasyroad) if you wish to share it!


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